TWO
Hunger had set in. Before dinner, I had a few errands to run. The first of these, of course, was an evening snack. Priorities, right?
I found a noodle cart on the fourth level of the King Station district. It was a comical little thing, boxy and rusted with a faded canvas umbrella of red and yellow. At one time it probably was mobile, but time had turned it into something a little more stationary. A line of stools and a small bar sat opposite the grill. It was currently devoid of customers.
A pot-bellied man stood behind the cart, wearing a sweat-stained undershirt, gray trousers, and just the brim from a wide-brimmed hat. He probably hadn't shaved in days and it was impossible to tell the last time he had bathed.
He whistled the first bars from Mother Holiday's "Gloomy Sunday" as
