Currently, Cash has been waiting outside this ice cream shop for the past five minutes. He’s not smoking or talking, so I don’t know what for. His dark sunglasses hide his eyes, making me wonder where he’s looking. His form-fitting, white dress shirt’s sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, and his hand tattoo stares back at me, taunting me. His neckline has fallen open, the top few buttons left undone, and his tattoos crawl up his chest. If I’m lucky, he’ll poison himself with all that ink.
