She dresses up as a flower and fits her small, black dog into a bumblebee costume. Then she holds him in her arms for most of the evening.
On my way to a meeting, I walk by a display window and see a T.V. with a news chyron displaying a report of shots fired downtown. I keep walking, wondering but not wanting to know, not yet.
His own little rebellion against having to do grammar exercises is to try to include the word 'frappé' in each sentence he writes.
These are cold streets full of rectangles of steel and glossy items on display in rows of windows. It's like walking through a catalogue.
He has lost the thread of his lecture. Forty-five minutes in, he's still giving us the introduction. Meanwhile, the audience has started taking over. They don't just ask questions; they begin to share personal anecdotes that aren't always relevant. The lecturer limits himself to echoing their thoughts.
Basketball players in a congratulatory bundle fill the train car with laughter.
The park is awash in a deep pink sunset, the color of cheap candy or cough medicine. A rat climbs a soldiers' monument where usually only people and pigeons roost.