I followed him down the street for a half block. Tall, upright, striding, he wore a kilt, tone on tone charcoal black plaid. A black and white sweater peeped out beneath a black leather jacket, and iridescent black Doc Martens gleamed at the end of his slender naked legs. His head was buzz cut all around, but for a top patch of longer hair. Stylish, sure and lovely....but for the cheap white plastic bag swinging from his right hand, through which I could read WHEY. The gallon tub of supplement really spoiled the look.
Down Park he pedaled, on a white bike without a cross bar, hands crammed insouciantly in the pockets of his hip length brown leather jacket. I grinned, for despite the lack of a helmet and recklessness of his hands-free technique, he cut a fine figure.
My subway car was silent, unless you count the whoosh of the air conditioning and the leakage from someone's headphones. On the express track, we glided through the 28th Street station. On the platform, two tracks away, sat a cellist, playing, but not looking like a busker. It was as though, overcome by a need to play, he'd spontaneously unpacked his cello and began. But I couldn't hear him through the silence.
It's nearly 10 o'clock in the morning. She walked down the street, wearing a pleated silver lamé skirt billowing in the breeze. She strode along, in silver Keds. I think to myself they should meet until my mind wanders off on the tangent of nothing rhymes with silver, and nothing rhymes with orange, and silver oranges is five syllables, could it be the start of a haiku?
