Delivery

Delivery

by Paul Beckman

The alley was the stereotypical one.

Stosh sat at the card table his back to the wall and waited -- a thick envelope at the ready.

A roar of a motor scooter and in no time, the squealing of brakes in front of the table and she swerved to face him sideways.

The cyclist took off her helmet, held it in the crook of her left arm, took the envelope from the table
and dropped it into the helmet. Stosh licked his lips and rubbed his nose, fixated and impatient. Instead of the expected glassine envelope, when she pulled her hand out she had her middle finger extended.

She laughed, put her helmet back on, and wheeled around and drove off.

Stosh moaned and put his head down in his arms, and wept.

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