I sit at the bus station, hating the Port Authority terminal is only one block from Time's Square, three from Broadway, just another reminder of my failure. I hug my purse to me as a pair of young men argue together a row of seats down, one finally handing over some dirty bills, the other quick with a small plastic baggie. The security guard ignores them as though drug deals in the open are commonplace.
I guess they are. And it's really for the best I'm leaving.
I spent the entire drive over here in the back of the stinking cab telling myself that very thing. It's best I'm leaving. Look at the prostitutes standing on the corners, their brittle smiles masking their hurt. It's best I'm leaving. The bums and the druggies who beg for change before following people into alleys to rob them at
