…I come around the corner, and look up to see a middle aged woman light a smoke, poking just through the jarred open door. The building’s flat south side becomes atonal with the woman’s shifty presence.
I b-line to the retaining wall and lick my index finger. I push the small cinder of the half-joint in my hand, out of respect, if not some lingering fear I have for the randoms of the city. She seems not fearful, but I have caught her during the moment of her lighting the cigarette.
I light a cigarette and resume my course and speed, toque down, scarf wrapped. I approach the penetrating door, raise my head, make the briefest of eye contact, and nod. I walk on, recalling no look of acceptance, no return, no satisfaction.
I walk over, around the corner, to my building. I begin to write…
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