Your name is Charles. People never call you Charlie; even under your present circumstances you seem like a Charles. You brush off your jacket, trying to make your worn garment appear as presentable and clean as possible. You're a bit tired, you've been walking a long time today, but then again you walk a lot every day. You're thinking about what you'll speak about when you reach Lorals.
You do this every night.
One night a month or so ago it began with a cup of coffee right before they were closing. Now you're part of the family. They serve you your nightly cup of coffee after they close at Newark's one and only Lorals. They still don't know much about you, which you like, but they like you. You've become a nightly event at Lorals.
You do like Sherman. You put up with Emilie. You can't stand Ryan.
You stop and gaze at a streetlamp for a moment, just a little too long. All your glances linger just a little too long, but they don't seem to notice. They think everything about you is fine.
You fit in.
Last night you had a dream about a dead sparrow coming back to life and swallowing your lungs.
You move past the lamppost, and you spot the corner where Lorals sits. Now you just have a few blocks more to go.
The first night you visited Lorals you reached into your pocket, searching, hoping for funds. You had enough for a cup of coffee. It was late anyway so it wouldn't appear odd. They would assume you had dinner earlier. You struck up a conversation with the waiter. You seemed to hit it off right away.
You both love opera.
