The Pink Slip
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The Pink Slip
It was a quarter past three in the afternoon and the park was nearly empty. I brushed away some shriveled leaves and dropped my ass on the bleached wood bench, threading the needle between a patch of fluorescent green moss and a generous dollop of bird shit. The sun was taking the day off lounging on top of a thick grey mattress, and even though it was fall, the air smelled like winter.