"Maybe," Jimmy said, taking her hand. "But as long as the lights stay on, nobody has to go home to the dark."
Jimmy stood outside the Selwyn Theatre, his collar turned up against a wind that tasted of diesel and desperation. He wasn’t there for the movies, but the movies were everywhere. The marquee across the street screamed Fleshpot on 42nd Street in jagged, hand-painted letters. Below it, a poster featured a woman with eyes that looked right through the viewer, a mixture of boredom and a secret she’d never tell for less than a twenty. Fleshpot on 42nd Street
He was waiting for Vera. She worked the concessions at the Rialto, but she spent her dreams in the flickering shadows of the pictures they screened. "Maybe," Jimmy said, taking her hand
"You're late," Jimmy said as she emerged from the crowd, her hair a beehive of gold against the grime of the block. The marquee across the street screamed Fleshpot on
They started walking toward 8th Avenue, navigating the sea of sailors on leave, three-card monte dealers, and the "fleshpots" the movie posters promised—the storefronts where intimacy was sold by the minute behind velvet curtains. To the tourists, it was a den of iniquity. To Jimmy and Vera, it was just the neighborhood.
"The movie? Nah. Probably just another quickie shot in a weekend," Jimmy replied.
"No," Vera said, her voice dropping. "The feeling. Everyone thinks this street is about the skin, the grit. But look at them, Jimmy. They’re all just looking for a version of themselves that isn’t lonely. That’s the real fleshpot. It’s a trap made of wanting to be seen."