But What About Punk Rock?

I traded names with a man in the diner. After we paid the scribbled bill, I left for the washroom past a row of dead pay phones, while the man left through the front. I could already see that he had gained my slight limp as he struggled past the cashier.

I picked up the ringing payphone.

My wife was dead.

A very short story from a week or so ago, with a few touch-ups.

If you'll excuse me, I must eat my breakfast of coffee and hotdogs.