Spark
Photograph by Stryker Knight
‘Dollar fifty, pal,’ says the old man behind the counter, not looking at Jonas. Jonas hands him change and takes the yellow lighter. He walks outside to where the buses pull into the train station, and the morning freight of city workers march past him, their faces scrubbed clean of emotion in the grey morning light. They jostle silently through the turnstiles to where trains are waiting like bullets in the chamber, ready to fire them into another day. The station is grey, and so are the trains.
Grey old day, Jonas thinks as he lights his first cigarette of the day.
He leans against the ticket machine, drawing deep and checking the herd for something tasty, like a blonde business suit or maybe even a heart-stopping glimpse of thigh beneath a school sk
