A slow old dog crosses the street. His man waits and helps him across, goes to the door. The dog is behind, sniffing a tree, taking his time.

“Buddy, come on!” Measured dog-steps back. A wise old spectacle, cool night.

Open window at the music school, spilling yellow light into the street, the quiet behind alley. A woman playing at the piano, a homey creature: big, wearing a wine-red dress with white dots. The music, turning pages, the music. Someone behind her with a – trumpet? trombone? – watching her play, waiting, for now.

Short skirts. On just girls, girls that are just there, but it’s summer and that’s nice to see. Like the changing of the leaves, a sign you’d (before) waited for, for noted season change. Those girls seeing the man in the sweater, “MAVERICK RUGBY”, trying to make eyes. Another difference, the eyes not made, the thrill different, but it’s nice all the same. You might make eyes, I don’t mind. Those eyes are never acted on—never, but now can’t; no, don’t want—but you can make them all the same.

White shoes. Worn twice. Fresh and shine. Twin lights, in the streetlights. Past the dogs, the girls making eyes, the men and women on the patios, the street-talk, the hop of the young men, their shouts, their laughs, their cheers. Smelling the air, noting: in the summer, by the beach, it always smells fresh, like rain.


  1. The depressing half of this was supposed to come FIRST, oh well. Tomorrow you’ll get a backwards perception of my day.

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