(c) Jay Alden.
My eyes stroke the two beautiful mounds that are Chaz’s biceps. I don’t know that his name is Chaz, but I see him practically every day so he might as well have a name.
“A pack of Silverton Menthol,” he grunts.
I notice that his T-shirt is struggling to cage his pecs. A battle I pray it loses.
“Anything else?” I ask as I ring up his cigarettes.
He swipes his credit card. As we wait for the transaction to go through I catch a glimpse of him absent-mindedly grabbing his crotch to readjust himself. If it had been anybody else this would’ve disgusted me. But this wasn’t anybody else.
“Until tomorrow,” I smile, handing him his receipt.
He nods as he takes his cigarettes and leaves. Until tomorrow.