Like the 2006 photograph of Britney Spears’s labia, the woman’s wallet peeked out of her jacket pocket.
I leaned over and said, "Miss, your wallet is going to get stolen."
She gave me that thank-fuck-you look, the favorite glare of all those who just moved here and thought they had street cred because they went into the neighborhood’s last remaining bodega down the street from their luxury condo.
I shrugged, went back to watching the subway fly by local stops.
But inside, I cursed Florence and the day she caught me stealing a stick of penny gum from the newspaper-candy store on Delancey Street, had me apologize to the owner and then made me promise never to steal again.
