A green hue presses through the fake fog that smells faintly like overcooked marshmallows. A crowd gathers in front of the stage, and a phone call draws me to the back of the auditorium.
“He ain’t doin’ good. He’s gonna to die soon.”
”What about gettin’ paid?”
”Sorry, what’s that again?”
”Will I still be gettin’ paid?”
”Don’t worry. We’ll take care of that. Should I come home?”
Deep breath, heartbeats mute the murmuring crowd in the room ahead, and my heart is quietly crushed. Concrete. Darkness, then a green hue, pressing through. Burnt marshmallows. Continue reading