fiction

Harlem June Twenty-First

The windows in that apartment were dirty. So dirty that when I walked up to them and ran my hand across it, my hand was greasy. I opened the big one and walked out onto the balcony and rubbed my hand across the other side and made a porthole in the center of the grime and we laughed as I waved to them on the inside. Later we all went to the deli and got grapefruit. We sat down at the end of the curb and held our knees and watched Terry cut the grapefruit open with a hunting knife. We couldn’t go back to that apartment, me and her, until they decided to clean it, so we stayed outside when they went home. It was dark then and the streets shined in the light of a full moon. Me and her followed a few pigeons around outside the weird hardware store where they kept them on the roof. A man rolled a bicycle by yelling something over and over again. I thought he would kill us. But life was so short then, and we had nowhere to be.

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