Hot Tears --Loretta Lynn McMurphy

I'm taking Jojo to that abandoned lot today, the one over by Lu's garage. I promise myself I can get a hot milk at the coffee shop if I go out. I like the ones with almond syrup, but no whipped cream. I hate whipped cream. Anyway, the flipping lot is a let down. This Lu guy must toss all of his reject parts there, and after I decide I don't want to have to take Jojo to get a tetanus shot, we leave.

As soon as we turn onto Pulaski Jojo pulls on his leash. My drink sloshes onto the flannel jacket I've worn the last four days. I think the laundromat should give me a discount for using all of my hot water, but so far my arguments have been unsuccessful.

I guess I wasn't watching where I was walking. I am jolted out of my thoughts when a rude man, cursing worse than my uncle after six rounds of whiskey, runs right into Jojo. Neither Jojo nor the slightly overweight man seem to have noticed, though, so I take a step backward to survey all the people milling around. I don't go out much, but this is ridiculous. I ask the frizzy-haired woman next to me if she knows what is going on. The only response I get is the overwhelming stench of alcohol and cigarettes burned too long. Don't ask me how I know what too long is. But the stench reminds me of home. Warm tears trickle down my numb face as I rush back to my flat, unsure whether they're from the cold or the place I'm running from.