Two people walk down a street. One goes right, one goes left. One walks on grass, beaten down by years of activity, the other on pavement, pockmarked by cars and trash trucks. One goes home, the other keeps walking, never to be heard from again.
“This is the alley behind my bank. It’s filled with pot holes the size of kiddy pools and upon exiting the alley, you’ll notice old men headed into “Cheetahs” no matter what time you visit the bank. I’m serious, all hours. Who knew a strip joint was even open before noon?” — Rachael Porter