“So, how does it feel to almost be a junior?” he asked, leaning in to be heard over the noisiness of the bar.
I smiled sadly, a cold drink in my hand and alcohol spreading warmth in my chest.
“Like time is running out.”
Grand Central Station, NYC, 1941. The light does not stream in like this anymore because the buildings around the station are too tall.
Give a little time to me, or burn this out
We’ll play hide and seek, to turn this around