Klempner
"Here..." Juliana places something in the ground... a flat something... "I'm not giving you a cushion, but you can have that."
On the end of her shoe, she toes it toward me and across the white line. A fragment of paint breaks from the edge of the line.
Stiff-jointed, I stand. It's not easy. Every movement scrapes flesh and bone against the concrete and I resist the urge to simply roll forward and crawl towards whatever-it-is.
So, I stand: unravelling myself: piece by piece, joint-by-joint, unfolding my body until I'm upright. Then I take the three or four steps to what has become the edge of my world.
Stooping with exaggerated care for my stiff spine, I examine her flat-packed offering. "A cardboard box?"
"It'll get your ass off the concrete."
"In this damp, It won't last
