Golden sunlight brushed just above the placid pewter waters, blue steel beams stroked with pink on the purple canvas sky. Morning traffic flowed smoothly over the JFK on the other side of the East River. As usual, daylight’s earliest congestion came to the FDR and Martin Abrams was stuck somewhere in the middle, his thoughts wandered over Mill Rock.

“I cringe just to think of it! – Waiting twenty years, and now forty years later you’ve got to wait for twenty more just to go again. – How could a person commit themselves to such a trompe l’oeil? – Monsieur Abrams?”

Wrinkled gray eyes followed the local garbage barge as it floated slowly up the Harlem River. Gentle waves of silver hair framed his weathered brow, and a pencil-thin white mustache stretched out above a stiff upper lip. He smiled and closed the window.

WP_20140403_006 (3)“Monsieur Abrams? Did you fall asleep?”


“You did fall…?”

“Yes. It is an illusion, Chauncey. You are correct. However, commitment is how we make it work.” Abrams turned towards the front of the car, meeting his driver’s eyes in the mirror. “I will not be returning. – No, not this time. – It is a young man’s game and I have grown much too old to play.”


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