She slips onto the next stool, lips as red as her dress.
“Buy me a cuppa coffee, Mister?”
I tip my hat and nod to the boy behind the counter. The urn spits and steams. He stares at her breasts as he sets the cup down, his acne raw under the fluorescents.
A whisper of silk on silk as she crosses her legs. She holds up the coffee to warm her face, though the day’s heat lingers, even at the witching hour.
A lone car passes up Greenwich Avenue. I offer her a Marlboro but she shakes her head.
“You got any dough?”
I reach in my pocket and hand her a fold of greenbacks, no questions asked. She holds it up in the fingers of one hand, then looks out through the plate glass window to where someone stands watching, his cigarette glowing in the hot feral night.