Excerpt: Molly Malone's

March fell across the city cold and rainy that year. It rained more than anyone had ever remembered it raining in one month before, turning dirt to mud, ice to water that ran in rivulets from the eaves of February. Rain that washed the grey streets black and slick, painted the sky a mottled inky grey that hid the sun. It was a March full to the brim with the smell of damp wool coats, galoshes and muddy foot prints tracked across the lobbies, foyers, tiny studio apartments and long spiraling sets of stairs. The sort of March where every last person to walk the streets knew to stand back from the curbs, knew too well the rain soaked souls of the cab drivers that had been worn down by the thump thump thump of windshield wipers, knew that no cabbie would avoid tearing through the puddles and spraying those waiting to cross the street. It was a sodden sort of month, where those that could curled up in cozy cafes with fogged windows and steaming coffee, with books with creaking, soft spines and their feet in just socks tucked under their bird-like bodies