On the subway
a woman with leather boots and a designer bag leaned forward in her seat and spit right onto the floor.
The woman across from me looked up, eyebrows raised.
“Really?” she mouthed.
The rear door slid open and a tall man walked into the car, his face badly scarred. Creamy-pink-and-tan marbled skin. He wore sunglasses. He didn’t have a nose or fingers. He carried a laminated news article in the crook of his arm. The headline explained, shouted to us, that he was the victim of an acid attack.
“They ruined my life. Money, please.”
“They ruined my life. Money, please.”
“They ruined my life. Money, please.”
Only the spitter and I gave him cash.
The spitter and I only gave him cash.