Urban decay by Guy Yasko

His walk is a catalogue of resentment. The old places are gone. There is no one left to go to them. Josef swings wide to avoid the sidewalk café tables, but not wide enough to miss the conversation: – We close on the 11th. – Condo? – Yes. – Assholes. No one hears. The joggers are faster in front of the Paris Star. Their eyes focus on points far away, anything but the words “Danseuses Nues”. Mothers tug stalled children homeward. Even the dancers themselves make a beeline to the door before ducking in. Not Josef: “Let them see me.” At the bar, he argues hockey. He has one beer and leaves.

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