Fiction
The Vaultby Frank Diamond
We
meet in the afternoon. Since Amy raises a young child, she's the first to
leave. I linger. Twice I stop at the hotel bar but it smells like formaldehyde,
and after that I usually head back to the Vault-to where we began. Inside the
Vault, business people unwind and I study the list of microbrews trying to
match taste to moment. Here's one: Orgiastic Eurotrash. How about this: Pubic
Relations. Perfect. Amy's PUBLIC relations. At the Vault I order a pint and
wonder: Why am I running around with a married woman? Is this the new Joe
Davenport?
The Vault's located on Main Street in Frame,
right outside Philadelphia. The speed limit is 25 miles an hour, and here's
where it gets strange. When I glance out the window, I see vehicles bolt by as
if
