It was late February and he was waiting outside her office and the elm trees rained their dead leaves down on his parked car. He preferred the patched shade to the bating sun just like he preferred cigarettes to his own thoughts. A Miles Davis record audible in the breezy distance was all the relief he needed. That, and his cigarettes. He could’ve used lunch or a cup of coffee, maybe a punch in the face, but choosing was not a beggars sport, like he even played sports.
The street was busy with people and cars and dreams and he could care less about that. He was waiting for her and her pomegranate lips and her emerald eyes and her overflowing heart and that was really all the relief he needed.
Of course the sun continued to burn skin off the pedestrians, even going so far as to relight one of his cigarette butts off the stale concrete. He didn’t care shit about littering or laws or time served or topical nonsense like global warming or rising gas prices or personal dilemmas. He only cared about her and cheeseburgers and how long until his hangover would evaporate and how many cigarettes he had left and if the blisters on his feet would heal.
But still, the sun cooked the dead leaves and smoked his cigarettes and people went on with their miserable lives and time cocked its head as it passed him by. He just waited.
