by Jeremy Relph
The skinny guy spotted me from across the parking lot. He picked his way over, waiting for a Civic to pass. His shirt was white, with dirt streaked across it, running loosely too his knees. “Want to buy a watch?” he asked, blocking the sun as he held out a digital calculator watch. His knuckles were bleeding and they dripped on my turkey sandwich. “Whoops,” he said.
Jeremy Relph is working on a Masters in Creative Writing in Manchester, UK. The Toronto native finds nothing romantic about the constant rain.