The Color Inside a Melon

YOU REACH A CERTAIN CORNER of the city, a certain hour, when you’ve taken a hit and there’s a man in your face, and it’s something else altogether. It’s not at all the town you know. You’ve learned to work its angles, even a street market in midsummer, the stink and caterwaul and the need to squint as a fishmonger raises a hose over his stall and casts a halo over the day’s catch. You’ve learned the code in the echo off the stones at 3 a.m. Could be some lonesome soul out trolling for company, could be you