Three a.m. He’s riddled with flop sweat. The air tastes like salt and vinegar. A tapping at the door. Hands grope the wall, inching toward the sound, feet as cold as the dampness that’s chilling his body. His right hand reaches for the iron doorknob just as the rapping stops.
Written by Debbie Lynn Miller
Brooklyn satire writer Debbie L. Miller is published in The Belladonna Comedy, Frazzled, The Haven, The StopGap, Greener Pastures, and The Syndrome Magazine.