Hand Luggage

The left wheel of your suitcase rolled straight into a grey blotch of spit. You didn’t see it. The wheel kept turning. It turned as you walked down the alley, as you made your way towards the grey-brick house, among so many other red-brick houses. That sound of the wheel, dissonant, when you went two or maybe three steps back the moment you realized you’d dropped something from your hand.

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