A cool breeze rustled the crepe myrtles’ leaves in the dying light. The greasy scent of hotdog cart food permeated the air. My stomach rumbled.
“I told him to stop texting while I was at work,” Mary From Accounting droned on as we took the escalator down to the Metro station. That was how Mare introduced herself – “Mary From Accounting.”
The bigger tragedy was she could get a date and I couldn’t.
Right before the turnstiles was a bank of phone booths. The Metro was one of the few places you could still find them in the District of Columbia. A blur of dark hair seized my attention as we got off the escalator. A burly shape crouched in the second booth. The glass walls bowed around him. Thick fingers clutched the receiver. The other hand hovered just above the floor.
“You see that?” I asked.
“What?” Mare peered into the crowd as if hopeful for fight.
“No, that.” I pointed.
“I thought they’d gotten rid of all the phone booths.”
“Doesn’t that look like a gorilla?”
"Looks like a Bulgarian," Mare said. "Gorillas don't make phone calls. For one thing they don't have pockets, so where would they keep the coins? Also, they can't talk. On the other hand, I don't think Bulgarians make phone calls either. Maybe it's an Armenian."
"Maybe it's a guy in a gorilla suit," I said. "Do gorilla suits have pockets?"
"I would think if you're going out dressed as an animal, and you need a pocket, you'd go as a kangaroo."
"Actually, it does look like a kangaroo. Or a guy in a kangaroo suit. There's the train, come on."
Opening: King's Falcon.....Continuation: Evil Editor