The stray dog leaves the scruffy ball next to a figure on a snowy bench. It lifts its eyes, the way dogs do; its gaze could melt even a heart of stone. But that man clearly has no heart at all.
The dog keeps looking at the unapologetic statue in vain hopes. Eventually, it gives up and nestles against its bronze legs.
“So, are we gonna do this, sugar?” the prostitute asks. “It’s 25 percent off throughout the lockdown.”
I look at the dog again. It seems like it has found some sort of warmth, after all.
“Get in,” I say.