The small wave came over the cement with a lazy little hiss, like a snake protecting an empty nest.
Curtis started to lift his feet-he was wearing dress shoes-then decided not to.
It was the last day he would sit on the riverfront as owner of Yurdan Supplies.
The little wave got the breakwall and walkway wet, but didn’t come over the top of Curtis’s shoes.
He was staring at the shoes, lost in memory, when a skateboard hit his ankle.
“Shit, sorry, bruh, sir, fella.”
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