TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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10.03.03, friday night
After work, I shared the elevator at my apartment house with the blonde woman on the 4th floor, the one whose four white black-mottled dogs I always hear, thundering along the hall above our kitchen. She commented, The neighborhood's a bit dangerous to be riding your bike in, isn't it? I smiled, sort of. Later, a train bleated a few blocks away as it chooed and chugged its way elsewhere. In the silent friend-less space of the place I call home, I wanted a beer, cold and quick.