Short story:

There is a man

Standing across the street

The arch of his shoes

Rest on the curb

I wonder if he’ll

Hop off into the

Cobbled road

That the city constructed

Just so

To make you forget that you’re

In the outskirts of the city

Drinking a cup of corporate coffee

In a little village-esque

With organic Thai restaurants

Boutiques of expensive clothes

And cupcake shops

He doesn’t hop onto the road

Instead he takes a step back

Onto the sidewalk 

Lighting a cigarette

Watching us on the patio

I pretend to read

But my eyes skim over the ridge of pages

Over the top of my glasses
I see his dish water blonde hair

Five o’clock shadow of red and brown, his flannel shirt and the red clay stained thighs of his jeans

His feet make it to the curb again and he hops onto the cobble stone
Walking closer to the patio, other patrons backs stiffen, eyes dart, they become increasingly engrossed in laptops, smartphones and paper without moving pens

As he walks closer to me, he says:
I love Henry Miller and the fact that you twirl your hair when you read.

He does not slow, but says this in an even tone without missing a beat
I watch him walk into the taqueria, shaking hands with another man
The others around me relax and I smile, closing my book.


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