
Bryan Washington Reads “Arrivals”
The New Yorker: The Writer's Voice - New Fiction from The New Yorker
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The Last Ride in the Night
You're wheezing in the back seat. Tony is adequately alarmed. They take you to a noodle spot only a block from your place. You've never seen it before, but it looks generations old. The walls are a pastel pink. Your shoes squeak on the tile. An episode of paris by night blinks on the television above the table. When tony asks, long you've lived in eustone too long? You say, i'll probably die here. That isn't funny. And they say, i wasn't joking. Good. I hate comedians.
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