★★★ Blood seeped out from a tiny crack in the dry skin of one thumb tip. Trash bags rattled stiffly in the wind off the river. The light was bright but low, skimming the surface of the sidewalk grates, shooting down the subway stairs to smash blindingly into the station floor. A delivery man on a bicycle wore a black balaclava. It was hat weather now, hat after hat down Prince Street. Where was the hat, anyway?
Thursday, November 14th, 2013
37 Polly Asks: New York Magazine Wants Me to Write Ask Polly For Them. Should I Tell Them to Piss Off?