Rainy daypublished: 2010-10-06
A big window separates me from a street I used to walk through, every morning. And no longer do. It rains on the other side. Shades of grey. A fat woman exits that street. She wears black. Black leggings that leave only a short piece of skin between her calf and her sneakers uncovered. Black T-shirt that has faded in the wash. She has pulled it over her heavy ass. Black glasses. Black bobbed hair. But her umbrella is bright. It is huge, and has rainbow coloured stripes. It rests on her shoulder and she twirls it. Twirls and twirls and twirls.
I walk down that street myself. It’s been a while. A man crouches on the other side of it, next to the entrance of the park. His position is similar to the one an athlete takes when preparing for a sprint. Yet this hand leans on the top of a bottle instead of gravel. It is a large, five liter wine bottle. A cheap red. I stop to watch him for a moment. His eyes are closed. He stays in this position and does not move at all. His hair is shaven along the sides, long on top. He wears army-coloured clothes. And Dr. Martin’s. Perhaps he’s lost his dog.