The subway in Buenos Aires is called the Subte. Its like a dingy old living room on wheels. We barrel through the bowels of the city as the teenage boy tucked away into his hoodie sleeps to the train’s rhythm and the Peruvian mama listens with a grin to hear daughter begins a story that gets trapped in her chubby cheeks next to two old ladies who speak in a horse race about the boy who still asleep next to an old man with emphysema. Whoever said there is no country for old men had never been to Argentina. The doors creek goodbye.
Goodbye.
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