[ WP ] Begin and end your story with this sentence : `` And yet , the city remained . ''


 And yet, the city remained. 
 
 The heat in the city was nothing short of scorching. The normal vibrant city, a melange of colors and energies was restrained, like an invisible hand grabbing the collar of a runner, pulling him backwards and causing him to lose all balance. The regular pace of the city was replaced with a reluctant crawl. 
 
 And I couldn ’ t help but chuckle to see the young suffer for at least moment. I am not a vengeful man by nature. I am not a spiteful man. But over the years, I found my strength waning. At first, I no longer had the energy to swat away the flies. But now, I no longer have the desire. So as I walk down the narrow sidewalk, I can hardly hide my pleasure. 
 
 Each pedestrian passing me is covered in a dirty sweat. “ Good afternoon ” I say to a woman pushing a baby stroller. She nods her head and reaches her arm across her forehead to wipe off the perspiration, but instead only succeeded in smearing her makeup. 
 
 A jogger on the side of the road stops in the middle of the street and arches his back as if broadcasting that he is done for the day. 
 
 A heat like this is rare. The trees, normally revitalized by the sun, instead droop in shame. I feel a certain embarrassment over my own giddiness. Tomorrow it is supposed to rain and will wash away the gloom. And the next day, the sun will come out and the runners will run. The children will be forced by their parents to come outside and frolic and play, away from their video games. 
 
 The heat is so great I sit down on a stoop on the sidewalk and create a makeshift fan out of some discarded delivery menus. I am suddenly brought to tears as I see a crack in the road. The heat melted the road, exposing a small bit of cobblestone underneath the black tar. My tears are invisible, hidden in a mixture of the sweat running down my face. But I don ’ t even worry because I ’ m so rarely looked at. To the young, my wrinkles are a reminder of the frailty of life. My cane is a strange appendage they never could imagine having. Their two arms and two legs serve them fine. 
 
 As I look down the street in each direction, I can travel through time. Like the tar on the road, the stores are merely facades covering up their true history. The Verizon store, once Second Avenue Film, run by Mr and Mrs. Kennison. Jack was long dead and I hadn ’ t heard from Mrs. Kennison in years. Perhaps she had moved on as well. Or perhaps she simply moved. 
 
 The McDonald ’ s. The Wendys. Even the new hardware store, now illuminated with neon lights and digital marquees, all almost unrecognizable. But the fluorescent signs and polished storefronts can never entirely hide its underbelly. For I still remember. I still remember the street from my youth, from when I ran those cobblestone streets with Edward and Richard. I remember slipping in front of the McDonald's which of course was a Mrs. Elenaor ’ s clothing store. I tripped and cut my knee leaving bits of skin and blood on that street. Perhaps the tar kept that preserved as well. 
 
 I grasp the end of my cane and struggle to get up. A car honks. A baby cries. Everyone is on edge this day, fighting to get home to their husbands and wives and air conditioners. 
 
 I have no idea how long I will live here. A droplet of sweat falls off my nose onto a cracked piece of pavement. I too, will be covered up soon. The buildings and roads have all been replaced. The creaking wheels replaced with engine revs and subwoofers. The glossy photos replaced with pixels. And the cobblestone covered with black sticky tar. 
 
 And yet, the city remained. 
 

