The lady who walks the Irish Setters every day. The same two old dogs are a perfect match for her, and the three of them well-synchronized. Then last week, four, another younger along. Today, down to three, but you know the arrangement. Her countenance, her constancy, each day of the routine these many years, she knew and prepared.
She walks past the guy with the "Work Wanted" sign. Has to. Every day. I should have been 90 seconds longer leaving the house to know much more.
A young woman, maybe an older girl, stands on the corner surrounded by posters decrying abortion. She has grisly blow-ups. The teriaki place behind her is closed today. I've browsed their reading material while waiting for service. Not too much of a leap for me to put it all together.
And these kids walking hand in hand. Why does she look at each passing car? I've seen the same in rougher parts of the city. Same with the gas station attendant on break, smoking her menthol. Prettier than the cashier but doesn't need the competition. (Practical Math was her favorite subject in school.)
Four boys piles out of a small Honda, hats cocked and speaking in a dialect foreign to their heritage, menthol smokers themselves, but here for energy drinks, so they are yet un-couraged to return the attendant's gaze.
I've some road to cover.
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