Random extract

He sits at the intersection. Behind glass. He watches the bus pass by, the little green elephant ears or lotus leaves wrapping the pillars. In those brief moments before the orange hand turns into a walking man, she cups her hand around her mouth and lights her cigarette while balancing one bag on each arm. Her hair is yellow and windy. It is time. He sits by his corner, watching the urbane, almost unobserved. What is he looking for? Is it the earnest smile on a young man's face as he walks the old lady across the street? A red haired man with balding dark patches in between his streaks streaks through. A young girl walks by, silent and beige, holding a cardboard box in her hands. Why do the straps of a bag wrapped around her wrists look like red mittens? The bandana wearer does not wait for the signal. The key-chain on his hip is long. He could be a prison guard. He waves at the passing car to continue, ignoring the finger stuck up in his direction. The lady on the bike whizzes past, overtaking cars as she passes. There are short skirts as there are warm overcoats and folded arms braced against the biting wind. It isn't raining like they said, but the lights are on. They are on random walls, on random glass, reflected reflections and reflections of them. They float like fireflies above the street. The third couple passes by, where the man carries a bouquet of lilies wrapped in paper. There are umbrellas with hooked heads and sharp tails in most hands. He thinks of thin swords - too much television. As each 545 passes by, he counts time. The needles on his watch have gone haywire, turning much too fast. It is a watery day and he's on the edge. Though it is grey, it has all the makings of a Sunday. A man in a blue cap, with sparse greying hair limps upon a silver stick. He walks down to the sea. The wind blows grey smoke from his cigarette past his ears. It merges with the wisps of his silvery hair - Dilbert's boss, only older. A sprightly young girl in her pink runner's outfit prances by. Her pace is different. A man wearing a green headband pushes a toddler on a carriage while a lady with green ribbons around two ponytails helps another lift a heavy bag. There are far too many Canons around necks. The strange position of being in-between is permanent. Like change. In between thoughts, in between worlds, perhaps there is nowhere to arrive.

The heavier people wear heavy expressions. Whether it is the cause or the effect of their weight is anyone's guess. A lady passes by in a comic heroine's uniform - blue and yellow. He wonders if it's paint. The strong winds blowing in ruffle the women's hair in a nice way. Who is the man in the large overcoat, styled like a latino villain, coat blowing in the wind like Batman's cape? An elderly lady walks by with a walker on wheels. Her face is contorted by lines of worry but when she returns after a while, the expression is different. Her face then is as it is. Indoors, the cold doesn't take bites off the skin. As an Acura convertible grazes the road, walkers ignore signs again. So does the old lady in an electronic wheelchair. Why do so many people yawn during those few brief moments at the intersection? There are people feeling cold today. It looks colder than it is.

The day ends with dinner at the most delightful place. One to return to.