Scott Perreault

Kuriosum

It was Tuesday evening and Roger sat on a subway bench by 47-50 Rockefeller Center transfixed by his right arm. It was nearly six o’clock, his entire right arm was now a solid piece of stone, and he found forming the next thought to be increasingly difficult. The subway was relatively quiet, especially for this time of night when the rush should be on. People walked with their faces buried in their phones, entering and exiting the trains, all the while seemingly oblivious to the speakers above announcing the coming and going of the next trains, and even of each other.