The flash catches the oily sheen of a velour tracksuit as a girl struts past, her low-rise jeans revealing a peek of a thong above the waistband. I dodge a blur of brushed aluminum as a kid on a Razor Scooter rattles over the uneven pavement, the vibration of the metal wheels humming against my boot soles.
There is a grit to the humid air, smelling of exhaust and cheap cologne, while someone’s Nokia chirps a tinny melody nearby. To make it in this city, you have to be a real Survivor, catching the metallic glint of the sun off every passing trucker hat before the light shifts.
Memories from that day
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