A small group of tourists stands at the curbside and shouts at a squirrel to get off the road. "Watch out! Cars are coming!" It reminds me of people who yell at the screen during a horror movie ("Run, run! No, not upstairs!"). At last the squirrel does turn around and head back onto the grass instead of trying to cross the street. The tourists cheer. I don't know how much credit they give themselves for the squirrel's self-preserving choice.
Sitting on a sunlit patio while waiting for the bus, I hear an eardrum-busting excuse for music coming from a loud speaker by a restaurant. It sounds as if someone had roared and slobbered into a microphone and recorded it for posterity.
The subway scrapes along the tracks, setting people's teeth on edge.
Digital fingerprinting doesn't work for me for the most part, so I have to get it done the old inky way, as part of a background check for a potential job. When I'm done I'm tempted to finger paint on the yellow-gray walls.
When the bus is out on the freeway I can read. But when it hits traffic or starts to lurch through the city I have to close my eyes to stave off motion sickness.
As she talks about her troubles over the phone I stare at a patch of sunlight by the lake. I want to bring us both into that light, so we can stand together in it and be warm.
As the geese sun themselves obliviously on the rock, the ducks sneak past them and go for the breadcrumbs.