New York is the “city that never sleeps,” but for genuine insomnia you can’t top Las Vegas. I stroll though the airport at 3AM after eighteen hours of hell in O’Hare.
The place is sprawling, with garish islands of slot machines strategically placed to shake out the nickels of passersby.
It’s there I see her, a pretty girl who might be beautiful in another time and place.
She stares into the flashing screen amid a chorus of chirps and beeps, picking quarters from a souvenier plastic casion bucket and feeding them to the machine, her face a mask of despair.
This is a story based on a poem I wrote a couple of decades ago.