It is around one in the morning that he steps into the convenience store. He’s the one driving the CL350 Honda motorcycle, faintly red under its thin crust of dirt and mud, still parked out by the pump he’d just used to fill its tank -- and leafing through the few one and five dollar bills in his tattered old wallet he asks, without looking up at the young woman behind the counter but with his lips tugged sideways in a crooked smile, “Whatcha folks got here I can eat for a couple bucks?”
@anexit, sc.













