Trading Places. John Caulfield

Rain dribbled down the side of the 41C. Condensation blurred his view of Dorset Street. He'd been staring at his reflection in the glass two seats ahead, but a young couple had sat in front of him at the Big Tree, and now his mind, it wandered. Fiddling with his ticket, he shifted in the seat. Late October winds sneaked in through the closed window, nibbling at his bare neck. He pulled up the collar of his fleece, and with his arm, wiped a long clear arc on the window pane. 🍓 Запрещённое в соцсетях искусство…