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.