Rainy day.
In homage of truth: the rain is not falling at this exact moment. But the grey wetness puts the thought of rain into one’s head. You can almost feel it.
A flash of movement and colour. A train rumbles by.
The light across the way flashes, changes. A bright white figure, legs permanently splayed. Bikes go, people go, dogs go. Finally, cars go. The light flashes, changes. The bright white man is no more. An orange hand flashing, flashing, flashing, numbers warning: hurry, hurry, stop.
Going, going, where is everyone going? Where are they all going at 11:15 on a Wednesday morning?
The barista chats with a customer. Why don’t you try the sandwich next time? Where are you going on vacation? Did you hear about so-and-so? The dishwasher is still broken.
Outside, grey, wet, impersonal, people locked away in metal machines. Bright raincoats on bikes, on legs.
Inside, warm wood and voices.
Haute Coffee, Toronto