Joshua Storrs, Issue 05 | Fiction

You: grease stained, on the way back to Queens from your apprenticeship with a mechanic who looks at you for too long sometimes, sitting across from me: paint stained, my backpack full of spray cans. If anyone else asked me what I was painting, I’d tell them it was a mural commission in Soho. But if the question came from you, I’d tell you the truth.