Joe locks up for the day. Walks across the street into the town square. Sits down on a wooden bench beneath an olive tree. Looks up through the tree’s branches at the night’s first stars.
People come and go. Murmurs, conversations, a car horn, some muted music from the bar down the street. Mexican music. Joe closes his eyes, leans his head back, tries to let the night wash over him. Still so hot.
And she is there, then, standing right in front of him. Pamela.
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