The clothing rack was filled. Coats billowed, people squeezed between the aisles. Somewhere, nearby, an escalator hummed.
Out of nowhere a spice rack smiled, waved to the cashiers.
The cashiers, busy as hell, only heard the humming.

There was no one in the tacqueria; not even waitstaff. The dining room was dark. The lunch hour had never happened. Dinner was a bust.

Flint hung from a surveyor with musty shoes. Outside,the restaurant, former employees picketed, their feet kicking up dust from a nearby construction work, whose jack hammers drowned out their protest, dusted their signs, sent passersby passing by faster than ever.

So surprising that I found a cigarette machine. I had not seen one in decades. Even more shocking that a grade-school kid brought money to the machine, fed it, pulled the little pin and out came a pack of Marlboros.

“Hey,” I said to the kid. “Those aren’t for you.”

The kid looked at me as he tapped the top of the pack against the heel his hand, like an old pro.

“Hey,” I amended. “Can I bum one off of you?” My whole face flushed as I asked. I knew I’d get arrested, even though I was just an innocent bystander, had not even bought the cigarettes. Or had I?