Money is the presence that burns tight pockets, slack and baggy pockets, or pockets with holes and lint and the lone half-shell of a pistachio eaten long ago. Money is the absence in pockets too tight for a fist, but loose enough for a hand unfurled with fingers close, fingers touching for warmth, for need of a handshake or a caress, a kiss brushed lightly to their tips. The street—tonight—is the bastard-spawn of money and absence. Mist clings to the air, to the sponge-meat of hungry lungs, to the nape of the neck, where hairs stand—prickled—against the threat of aggression. There is aggression: in the shadows. To the east, where the city reaches for the languorous caress of the lake, sirens wail at the advent of some emergency. This is where the neck hairs prickle, where he finds keys in the pocket and furls his clasp around them. For defense. There are seven keys on the ring, eight keys…nine. The count, he thinks, is as imprecise as beer-addled memory, but there are enough keys to skewer the spaces between each finger. Keys enough to jab into the eyes or the neck of any assailant who might materialize from the shadows. He knows how to do this, how to jab with keys placed in the finger-spaces of a clenched and compact fist. He walks—through absence and moist air—along the street, counting steps to keep his mind focused. Hunger has made a nest in his gut, and so he will banish it as quickly as he can. At this hour, finer restaurants are a convenience far from reach. Their windows are dark, their staff at home, nestled in whatever lives occupy their late nights. At this hour, the street is empty of all but a lone wanderer, a whisper of mist, and the sound of law enforcement emergency over there: to the east, where the city reaches for the lake. There is a place for food. It is lit with gold and neon. It is cheap. Its furnishings are outdated, its silverware, dented. He knows the night-waitress—if not by name, then by face and by her hours of employment. She knows him, he imagines, not by name, but by the stubble-scruff on his face and the fall of sand-colored hair over the crests of his ears. She judges him, he knows, as a meticulous tipper, and sometimes—though not often—she smiles. He has money—enough for the late night convenience of food in the only place open—enough for cigarettes (still sold over the counter here, though smoking indoors is strictly forbidden.) He has money, and the absence of money and gold-blond hairs standing prickled on the nape of his neck. Police sirens wail in the east, where the city seeks the lake. Soon, he will eat. And after, with smoke in his lungs, he will make the walk home. *** The greasy spoon pictured isn't actually the same as the one depicted in the text above. They share little in common. The source of this image is a particularly...um...local establishment in Albany Park. On occasion, you can get food with your grease, and service from a waitress defined by her inattentive absence, chipped and lumpy fingernail polish, and dark hair pulled into a weather-damaged ponytail. I took this picture a couple of weeks ago, during a nocturnal wander through the streets of Albany Park. Corey and I were both in search of something, anything to satisfy our itchy shutter fingers. There wasn't much, but there was a greasy spoon, a familiar and underwhelming place with light and colors far more inviting than the food and the service. As always, thank you for viewing and reading and commenting, and Happy Mother's Day to those in the maternal demographic and to all of the offspring who make that demographic possible.