P for Protection. That’s what he thought anyway, huddled under the El track. Every ten minutes the shudder of the metal stanchion and the clackety roar reminded him he was still alive.
Frank from the Pizza place came out and nodded to him. Handed him a coffee and a leftover slice. Their evening routine. ‘Any luck today?’ Frank always asked.
He always shook his head. Not today, maybe tomorrow. Always maybe one day in the future. She might come back, she might step off the El and stop at Frank’s for a coffee. Like they used to do.
Maybe one day.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (more details HERE). The idea is to write a short story of 100 words based on the photo prompt (above).