Cecilia paused. She could never remember their names. Perhaps she is never told; perhaps she is made to forget. Briefly wondering how many have come and gone, she then decides that names are ultimately inconsequential, before lamenting sotto voce, “What’s in a name…”
“You see,” He pats me on the shoulder without washing his hands, “you see how far you can come to be like me… An empire of data, the co-owner of at least five industries with thirty percent say.”
“Sounds like shit, to be honest.”
“The thirty percent say. You don’t have much control, do you?”
His eyes flickered helplessly at the waters. It was no dream. On his right side, he positioned his arm back, catching the waves as they curled, and he felt his shoulders spasm—the push and pull through the cold. Elliot looked over at the sullen, beaten yellows of the bridge.
It was a bad heat wave in August that pushed away through the blue sweat, twisted and rolled on the nooks and crannies of us all. An extended rain came down, gradually coming and going, moving in a stutter—and as I watched, an eerily spume came forth from the clouds; they blackened.