a man crossing the street



He’s middle-aged and standing on the corner at 6 a.m., Bermuda shorts and a yacht shirt with a pseudo coat-of-arms stitched over the chest pocket, deck shoes and a 400-page paperback clutched with both hands.

He’s got that anxious, unmoored look in his eyes that comes from reading too many books. The streets are empty and his light is green, but he seems to need more assurance before he’ll venture off the curb.

I’m at right angles to him in my car, and my light is red. We’re both waiting for a signal to start the day.

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