yesterday

a pigeon walked past our kitchen window
and it didn't stop
until it had reached the end of the street

erosion

Her purse had fallen onto the ground.
I told her so.
Although she seemed to be looking straight at me, she didn't react and just kept on sucking on the end of her cigarette.
I said it again.
Her eyes lit up. "Are you talking to me?"
"Yes," I answered. "Your purse has fallen off the table."
She thanked me profusely and apologised for not answering faster. "It's very rare that people say anything at all to you in the streets," she said. "I'm not used to it. It should happen more often, shouldn't it?"
I smiled.
"My husband doesn't say much to me either," she continued, as she stubbed her cigarette out nervously and nodded in the direction of a shape sitting opposite her reading the newspaper, unaware that his wife was talking to someone else.

date

His eyes leaped to her crotch.

warm solitude

There is little
more beautiful
than sitting
sheltered
from an
oncoming storm,
with the light of day
dimmed
to an early evening.
And the cool
of a summer breeze
easing the moisture
out of a hot day.
And me sitting at my table.
Writing.

There is nothing better.
Save,
perhaps,
the cry of a seagull
ripping the air apart.

with a flick of his hand

The editor looked at the pile of manuscripts. And sighed. 40 to deal with today. He took a glance at each one, flipping through them halfheartedly. Judging their quality by the accompanying letter and a few sentences he chose to read. In the constant quest of someone who writes the way he would have liked to. Within an hour, he had divided them into 4 piles of 10. Three of the piles were dispatched to three of his readers. And 10 were thrown onto his secretary's desk with the request to write a short note saying that "the editors thank whoever but the manuscript does not fit into their editorial line. Or something to that effect".

perhaps he's right

An aged man with a parched face tripped up to me in the café, leaned across the table and said to me in a gentle voice, "Don't give it too much thought. Just let things go a little."

programmer

He'd been working for the company for barely a day. Yet he had already adopted the stance of someone who had been there for years. Legs stretched out under the table. Shoulders round. Back curved down to the height of the seat. Eyes gazing at the screen. Right hand firmly grasping the mouse. Left hand twitching heavily over the keyboard. Oblivious to any form of life outside his virtual world.

the privilege of age

A knuckled, blotched, trembling hand rose slowly above the set of shelves in the shop and reached for a card which had been placed at the very top of a display shelf. The tips of its fingers picked at it until it managed to dislodge it a little so that it toppled over and fell into the grappling hand.

A bent over crumpled old woman gradually appeared from behind the shelves, with the top of the card protruding from her coat pocket. Weary with a life of too many years, she chewed, sniffed and mumbled her way out of the shop on two crutches as a bewildered shopkeeper looked on.

what a busy little man

His pace is a healthy almost breathless pace. He always knows where he is going. Never the time to stop and look at a daisy or watch the clouds waltzing above him. Where he goes, he goes to fast. Whatever he does, he does with precision. Whatever he says, he says with self-importance. No fuss. No hesitation. No time wasted. Crashing his fingers down on keyboards, going straight to the point, flying down business corridors to say something essential to his superiors or to attend the ultimate meeting. A quip here, a quip there and everyone on his side.

Does he do the same at home? Does he open his front door before he walks through it? Does he give a business kiss to his wife as he throws his briefcase on the floor and winks to his children? Does he bulldozer through supper? Quick brush his teeth? Fuck fuck fast. And fall asleep?