Lost, Work

Still revising chapter 1.

The bus left the square, veering onto 8th Avenue. By contrast, 8th was the much maligned metro zoo he’d always heard about; pornography stands, peep shows, and hookers flaunting their wares as best they dared in broad daylight.  Some looked raw with their make-up too thick, hair held together with spray, faces wasted by too much excess, fishnet stockings, and skirts cut up to their crotches.  He’d seen plenty of hookers in Atlantic City, most of them better looking than these tired whores.

He shivered suddenly at his critical cruelty.  He’d never looked at women in such a decisive light, and now he felt guilty for it.

Men were always examined like this, but never women.

He wondered then if his being a queer was at the root of his deadly predicament, or was it instead the reason he was alive on a bus bound for anywhere but home.

Andrew rubbed his eyes and cleared his head.

He needed to focus on something else.  He was certain at night the lights made this place almost glamorous, but in the middle of the day it reeked of desperation.

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