Though he knew better, he’d grown attached to the phone that had been pieced together in some Chinese sweatshop. As they disappeared into the darkness, an involuntary sigh escaped him. He brought everything to the trashcan and dropped in his soiled plate, the empty cup of miso soup, the cards, and his phone. #The middleman olen steinhauer license#Then he took out his wallet and removed his MasterCard, the Virginia driver’s license he’d never gotten around to changing, and even his library card, but he held on to his debit card. He typed, Off on trip with friends, let you know when I get back. He lifted his phone again and scrolled through contacts: MOM. #The middleman olen steinhauer full#Maybe Jasmine and Aaron had been full of hot air, posers in a city of posers, and all his time here would turn out to be a waste. It had never been, though, and after a while he’d begun to wonder if the day would ever come. Each morning, walking to the Office Depot in the Potrero Center where he stocked shelves and tried to be patient with customers, he’d carried in him the weight of knowing that this could be the day. He wasn’t scared, not really, because he’d been waiting weeks for this moment. Kevin blinked until his sight cleared, the hazy distance coming into focus again. By the time Kevin’s phone vibrated beside the tray, number unknown, the homeless guy was long gone, and there was nothing to interrupt the steady Sunday trickle of tourists, vagrants, and hookers. But San Francisco residents had seen far worse-hadn’t everyone?-so no one bothered him. A few minutes ago, he’d seen a homeless guy urinate against the bland office building across the street, turning to face the wall as if by this show of modesty no one would notice. He shifted his gaze to the window in front of him-watching, like always. The joy he took in eating sushi was one of form and not content this realization felt like something important. The flavor was appealing, but nothing special, not to his palate, yet he had eaten so much of this food since moving to the West Coast a year ago that by now the ritual was second nature. Then he went about the ritual: the trimming of the chopsticks, the laying on of ginger, the measured smear of wasabi. He counted the rings in his spicy tuna roll-one, two, three-thinking of architecture. KEVIN MOORE leaned against the counter at Sushi Taka.
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