“Will you stop it already?”
Davie swallowed a sigh and lowered his eyes. He was making them stick out like sore thumbs.
“Only tourists and amateurs look up,” Bessie admonished, kicking a dry piece of sidewalk gum. “Real New Yorkers have already seen everything.”
Perhaps, but he had yet to. And he wanted to notice. Everything. Who lived in the tall building? Whose shoes were tied overhead? Why? Was it a memorial? A gangster’s territorial?
“Raise plow,” he read, imagining. He was looking up again.
“If we’re caught,” Bessie hissed,”the only raise you’ll get is welts from belting.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt: © Roger Bultot
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