A guy, a gal, and a third wheel are sandwiched together on a crowded bus. The guy and gal feel each other up and occasionally remember to include the third wheel in their whispered conversation. The third wheel laughs a lot and shares anecdotes about weird cellphone conversations she's recently had.
They find the strength to meet beneath the harsh lights and talk. They understand each other's inertia, emptiness and fear.
Gold hair on a dappled picnic blanket.
On one side of the park there's a broad river, tolerating a few sailboats on its shuddering back. On the other side, there are rows of buildings that look like cardboard boxes.
Her voice is lovely and sorrowful. She remains still as she sings, even when the children chase each other around her waving their swords and shrieking.
Restless crowds seek junk food and bad comedy on a beautiful day.
Sometimes they don't sound human. They talk about themselves as if they're machines that need the right kind of tuning, the optimal dosages of medication to keep their parts moving.