New York 08
Gladys Tearspot, grey and almost stately in her sharp, pea-colored suit, lay down in the tinkle-flecked snow in front of her posh apartment building. She pulled several of her ultra-bred dogs close to her shivering old body. The dogs didn’t seem to mind, but this apparent indifference had more to do with the raging pinecone-shaped genes buried within the dog’s expensive blood than anything else, including canine devotion. They had none .
On the street, automobile traffic was light, the morning crush and scrabble of commuters diminished to a few taxis and delivery vans. Much to her surprise and delight, Gladys liked the feel of the cold concrete beneath her and wondered why it had taken her so long to do this, to open her hands and let go.
Something else was going to happen and she was going to wait for it. Right here.
Text and Images © Andrew Auten – All Rights Reserved