Scattershot

A lady in a pink blouse is holding herself. Her arms are crossed and wrapped tightly around her waist. Her blonde hair is uncombed and hangs past her face in torn sheets as she watches the sidewalk move beneath her. She is walking west on Jasper–without plans. She has walked many blocks and many hours.

A native man in a nylon red jacket has bought a small coffee–and bought himself some time. Enough time to place chin on chest and sink, as far as possible, into his wooden chair. One arm has fallen and hangs limp by his side. Soon, the Railtown bench where he sleeps will be warmed by the sun and he’ll return.

I recall that I haven’t seen Brian for months. He had plans. So I’m hopeful.

Later…two young women, annoying even to themselves one would think, have mastered scattershot-blather. With one dramatic "oh-my-god!" head shake and convulsion after another… Like, oh m’god, I’m gauging my annoyance levels. They’re in the orange.

Now a tall slender woman has come in. Black hair pulled tight and fastened behind her head with a broad orange hair-clip, red-orange lipstick, tight white blouse, tight orange crop pants and orange leopard-print stilettos upon which she balances and awaits her coffee. The two young women are: LIKE-OH-M’GOD!

A swad of joggers run east into a low sun awaiting their endorphin-high.