His father was putting in a load of laundry, pouring soap into the machine as his son ran up the stairs, which he had swept the night before. His son took after most sons in that he fled from anything that smelled of housework–especially housework that involved unscented soaps that returned to the earth in a month or less, like menstrual blood.

That afternoon, we met at the counter at three o’clock. There was daylight and some light coming down from the fluorescents and the brochure with gym pass info in it, and the rest of the lobby cold and bustling and of no consequence to me. Multitasking madly, multitasking impatiently, as anyone would. Come on debit machine. Come on printer. Her voice like a copper rivet on the pocket of a pair of black jeans: “Pay up.”

Strokes mustache.

Picks up a pen.

Coughs into arm crook.

Rubs cuticle with thumb.

Inputs notes, rings on fingers.

Scratches cheeks with a coin while his mother waits for an espresso.

In this way we have a walk to take and he remained not met because he had begun too late. When I said begun too late I meant begun too late. When I said begun too late I meant begun too late now. In such a case a sneaker is a sneaker. In such a case of on at a sneaker of on at a sneaker when, of on at a sneaker when and whither.

(I was stretching my mouth and I had heard this crack in my jaw. It sounded at first like nothing more than a popped socket.)

Should a powdery-light brow shade itself, move to enclose with morose gravitas a feeling–with what acrimonious fervor the lips snatch up the brow’s expression and set it free!

She tapped her right foot on the rain-mottled sidewalk and leaned back. With a crinkle of her yellow raincoat, she lifted her arm and shed the last shreds of self-consciousness in a port de bras.

Factitive slumber.

Legs and fingers spread. His clothes do not balloon in free fall–studies terrain.

Hurtles through the stratosphere.

The end of the leap looks like a tip toe.

Water up-splooshes as a goldfish leaps from one pot-shaped bowl to another.

Hobbles down the staircase, hand on handrail. Right foot turned out. Braced ankle.

Gesticulates to the tune of reason-like rhetoric against all the most regal backdrops.

He reaches into his sweater to scratch his armpit.

Leaves like last hands in the wind. It is winter.

She pushes the push plate and cranks her neck back to avoid eating wreath on her way out of the shop.

Hugs a man whose coat is torn in two places. Reels back. Carves numbers into night–her stylus fingers.

Flashes a buspass on a pink and black lanyard. Boards bus rueful. Smiles.

Wears a gold helmet. Rides in circles on a motorbike in the alley.

Walks through double doors. Shoulders jerk back and forth as he wriggles a knapsack onto his back. Continues on down the hall to the stairwell.

Sway gently at both sides.

Left arm bent up into a hook from which a large white purse hangs. The other flops front and back, as the woman walks fast.

He walks across the square. He lifts his head. Arms hang at his sides, moving only as he picks up speed. He stops for a split-second and looks in another direction–pulls the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over his bare hands.