In a New York Minute

An interlude for lunch goes awry

Dylan sat dazed in the shadows. His vision swam, and it was hard to think. His nose was bleeding, and he had a painful lump on his head.

         — motherfucker, and all of it—

He was going back to work, just going to work. Just a quick sandwich. It was all so fast. He wasn't

         — I'll cave your fuckin skull in—

living some high-risk lifestyle. He shook his head, and it hurt. He looked around, smelled around. He was only about ten feet into the alley, but he might as well have been a half-mile away; not a single pedestrian on the sidewalk, passing in what seemed like slow motion, even noticed the blinking, bleeding man in the disheveled suit sitting against the dirty wall of the old delicatesen.

He happened to glance at the digital clock on the Union & Hartford building. It was exactly one o'clock. He tried to stand, but

         — come up off it, cos it's mine now—

got dizzy and fell back immediately, this time hitting the back of his head.

"I gotta gedda wrk," he heard himself mumble. He heard how muffled and muddy his speech was. He tried again, speaking to no one, just trying to get his brain moving. "Get. To... Fuggit, I needa doctor, man." He reached in his pocket; he need 911, a cop, an ambulance... but

         — phone, too, and that fancy watch; hurry up, bitch—

there was nothing there to grab: no keys, no phone, no money. He leaned against the wall, and people passed him by. His vision swam, and grayness crept in from the sides. "I gotta...gotta..." Before he passed out, his eye caught the clock again. 1:01. Before the black took him, his last thought was: This is gonna be a loooong day...

NOTES: ▶︎

Word Count: 295
Submitted for "The Writer's Cramp" 
Prompt: Story happens within one minute