Her voice deepened; it became fulsome, indulgent, almost smug
She spoke of fey youths she had known, of their clothes and hair, the petulant swing of their slim hips.
During the day, life stood stolid, gray and oblivious. But at night, heaven came in the cracks.
Riding still, out of the roaring night into a pallid day of sidewalks and beggars with the past rising through their eyes.
worker misclassification—the risible fiction that “gig economy” workers, whose every movement is scripted in fine detail by their employers, are actually “independent contractors”
