“Faint human outlines surround them. The bridge looms above, and beyond the graffiti-covered shelter the rain falls into the East River, relentless. It’s always raining these days, Marion thinks, pulling her rail-thin legs closer into her body. “Doesn’t seem like he’s coming,” Jason says. He likewise sits on the fine layer of traffic grit covering the ledge, back resting against tags done in violent sprays of yellow and red over the concrete. “He’s coming,” Marion says. She shifts dull blonde ha...ir away from her eyes. She’s eighteen, and, though she wants to be here, she thinks she might be sick. He does come, five minutes later. Appearing as if the drizzle had parted like a curtain. The Postman is thinly menacing as ever, hunched over as if he carried a shell on his back. A cigarette glows between his weakly shivering lips. “I heard about Sam,” he says. “That sad little bastard. You can’t let it get ahead of you like that, let it own you. Like I always said.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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