You never know. 

Sometimes I think it’s luck, being a cabdriver and having small talk with people I’m taking home from the airport to streets with names like Ashton or Scullery Row. I’d turn in my medal by the end of the day around six and have enough time to bide 
by with a cup of joe, watching everybody rush by outside. Frantic on the sidewalk, frenzied on the metro. 

Early evening you’d find me headed towards the corner dimsum, hanging my coat in the back and punching in on the dot. 
I’ve been washing dishes for so long, Juanito kids that with me it’s an art form. Nozzles trained at piles and piles of greasy porcelain, warm and cold. All of seven hours till way past midnight I’m churning them out. Crisp and squeaky clean. 
Except this once, I don’t think much about it. Life runs in cycles, and so does this job. 

Soak, soap, spray. Repetitions of the same. 

insert coin here. A German remix of that Brit group neo-gothic-slash-industrial groans & grinds. 
(She'll break a promise as a matter of course Because she thinks it's fun to have no remorse)

It’s pouring by the time the last load’s done. Home for me’s a utility by the West end of town. 
Grim warehouses and run-down buildings with the sometime pub, a pool and bowl.  :The Chatsubo: (gong) 
I had a dog once, and she’d run to greet me every time I got in the door. That was such a long time ago. 

Corralling pots and pans to catch the ceiling drips, settling down in my favorite chair.
Listening to the pitter-patter, the padding of the torrent against the gray pebble window. 
Two floors below the neighbors I don’t know are having a late not so very down-low. 
The boombox reverberating a hyped hybrid drum and bass mesozoic jungle. 

last up 04 05 +1 @ 02 54