in the east village

There’s a splattered coffee on the ground, a startled woman surrounded by strangers-in-aid. A man is yelling at another man, and then the smaller one pivots and breaks into a practiced sprint, his legs blurred in the slight rain. The yelling man runs after him, they dodge through the people on the sidewalk like a car chase. The coffee is still there, the woman is still there, she is still shaken. The sprinter has half a block over his pursuer. They race around the corner out of sight.


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