Most of their conversation consists of the same complaints getting aired, followed by the same bits of reassurance and advice. The advice-giver's voice remains steady, a series of low round notes. The complainer alternates between an agitated but soft melodic line and the occasional crescendo to keep us all on the edge of our seats.
The buses can't travel a block without wheezing. The newspapers twist in pain beside the curb.
What they've tuned into reminds me of some of the T.V. shows I used to watch as a kid. The ones with multi-talented teens who seem to do everything at their high school except study and go to classes.
Traces of a plaster face on the wall, the white mouth shaped into a tiny 'O' and the eyes blank.
Steam seems to come off of everyone at the restaurant. All the diners are dumplings.
She listens with all outwards signs of compassion. Inwardly she's wondering how much time has passed and how best to interrupt without seeming to interrupt.
The wind rushes across the river in the dark, flooding the street and making the leaf-shadows dance.