The wall in the alley seemed like a good place to sit until Frank Crowley saw all the cigarette butts underneath his dangling feet.
This section of wall was someone else's spot.
All the butts were from the same brand, stubbed out at almost the same length of the cigarette, near the filter, as though the person was never in a hurry, always got their money's worth.
Frank wondered if the person would show up, ask him to move, claim some sort of squatter's rights.
He hopped down and walked away.
Today wasn't a good day for a confrontation of any nature.
Wind kicked dust from the alley into his eyes.
He stopped and rubbed them, though he was vaguely aware that one wasn't supposed to rub an eye with something in it.
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