Nadav Spiegelman

Hold Tight

Christopher Bram
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The subway ride downtown was slow and miserable. Portions of families sat in stupors in the glaring electric light, burnt air pouring through the open windows when the train was moving, stale air sighing from the small caged fans when the train was stalled.
She was right, of course. A
few birds had begun singing in the first coolness of the evening. The yellow scraps of sunlight faded in the trees. They sat together in silence, waiting, as if desire were something that would pass by, like a policeman.
But there is a war going on,” he announced, the phrase Americans forever repeated, as if needing to convince themselves.