The flash catches the sheen of her blue satin slip dress as she adjusts a tiny nylon backpack, looking like a total poser trying to mirror the grunge kids across the park. I weave through the crowd, my fingers grazing the slick, jagged edges of a heavy brass slammer tucked into a skater's pocket.
The wind smells like burnt espresso and cheap newsprint, carrying the high-pitched trill of Mariah Carey from a passing car. I dig into my denim for change, grumbling as I realize a meager loaf of bread has climbed to $0.79, leaving me barely enough for another roll of film.
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The Headlines
After 18-Game Championship, 'K' Still Means Kasparov