didn't check where you'd fall : {gaby}
Jun 30, 2017 15:55:16 GMT -5
Post by goat on Jun 30, 2017 15:55:16 GMT -5
aaric malinowski
The night air is thick, like somebody is trying to smother me with a blanket. It stinks like it always does- smoke, smog, industrialism. Every step I take is uncomfortable thanks to the wad of cash hidden in the bottom of my sock. There isn’t another safe place to put it, though. It’s barely even safe where I have it now, but I suppose no aspect of my job could be considered “safe”. A part of me wishes I could be at home, curled up in a deep slumber on the couch, but the rational part of me ignores that wish. If I ignore what I need to do, my sisters and I will starve. Simple as that.
I count the amount of money I’ve made tonight in my head. I can remember who gave me what, and how much, with ease. There are some things you can’t forget about a person. Once I’ve counted how much I’ve made, I think about what I owe. Rent is due next Friday, so I’ll put away money for that. Tomorrow I’ll pick up some groceries before I leave for work again, so that’s more money. There isn’t going to be a lot left over. I run a hand through my hair and sigh. That means two, maybe three more jobs tonight.
I turn off the sidewalk into a tight alleyway, sliding past tin trash cans at the mouth that would surely make a commotion if I ran into them. Any sort of noise is bad for business. It scares people away. They think they’ll be caught. When a situation goes bad, they’re the first to run, leaving us floundering for cover. It hasn’t happened to me, only to friends of mine, but the possibility is always there.
I adjust my clothes and look to the other end of the alley. A man is there, leaning against the dirty brick, his hands shoved in his pockets. The portrait of a customer. Perfect. I begin my slow approach, already envisioning the money being handed to me.
I count the amount of money I’ve made tonight in my head. I can remember who gave me what, and how much, with ease. There are some things you can’t forget about a person. Once I’ve counted how much I’ve made, I think about what I owe. Rent is due next Friday, so I’ll put away money for that. Tomorrow I’ll pick up some groceries before I leave for work again, so that’s more money. There isn’t going to be a lot left over. I run a hand through my hair and sigh. That means two, maybe three more jobs tonight.
I turn off the sidewalk into a tight alleyway, sliding past tin trash cans at the mouth that would surely make a commotion if I ran into them. Any sort of noise is bad for business. It scares people away. They think they’ll be caught. When a situation goes bad, they’re the first to run, leaving us floundering for cover. It hasn’t happened to me, only to friends of mine, but the possibility is always there.
I adjust my clothes and look to the other end of the alley. A man is there, leaning against the dirty brick, his hands shoved in his pockets. The portrait of a customer. Perfect. I begin my slow approach, already envisioning the money being handed to me.
wc; 342
