“Let it play out.
“Let them rack up streams.
“The listeners love this.”
Ronnie scratches his chin. “She’s got a point.”
Raymond’s hand curls into a fist.
He hates that Ronnie agrees with me.
His chair creaks as he leans back.
“You better hope you’re right.”
But the wicked look in his eyes glues my mouth shut.
His stare reminds me he doesn’t have to touch me to restrain me.
Ronnie claps once.
Then he leans forward,
using momentum to stand.
“I’m going back to my office.”
Raymond waves a dismissive hand.
“If Jess orders lunch, have her grab that pasta I like from the little Italian place on the corner.”
// 8:26 PM - TYPE NO. 45 - EAST VILLAGE //
It’s almost eight thirty.
The sun’s passed out.
I stop by Type No. 45 on my way to the penthouse.
It's a bookstore and a record shop,
both sharing one soul.
I didn't plan to come here.
I don’t even remember turning down the block.
But here I end up again,
stopped at the storefront,
the city rerouting me
when I'm not paying attention.
It's a pulse. A hum.
Maybe it's 'cause Dad once played here.
