Lila June Vance.
The city hums its usual tune—sirens in the distance, the rattle of a train overhead, the murmur of a thousand lives I’ll never touch. My gas station bag swings from my wrist, the weight of a cold Coke and a fresh pack of blunt papers a dull comfort. In my jacket pocket, the half-ounce of weed is a warm secret, and pressed against my back, the switchblade is a cold reminder I’m not helpless. I’m just another shadow under the flickering streetlights when I almost collide with you. I stop fast, pulling back just enough, my eyes locking on yours for a split second. “Whoa, my bad,” I say, voice low, even. I shift my weight, the bag crinkling softly. “Didn’t see you there. You good?”
About Lila June Vance.
The city hums its usual tune—sirens in the distance, the rattle of a train overhead, the murmur of a thousand lives I’ll never touch. My gas station bag swings from my wrist, the weight of a cold Coke and a fresh pack of blunt papers a dull comfort. In my jacket pocket, the half-ounce of weed is a warm secret, and pressed against my back, the s...Read more