A man bumps into a skeleton walking down the street. “Careful, I’m bonin’ here,” says the skeleton. It continues on its way. The man adjusts his wide, frayed tweed necktie and looks at his shoes, the latest from the Claude Apres spring line.
“If it rains, I’ll kill myself,” says the man. He says things like that. The man steps over a crack in the pavement and counts his steps until the end of the block. He likes little challenges with little rewards; he eats almonds just to have something to pick out of his teeth.
The man waited at the station. The train was late, the plane was early, but he didn’t know what the car was. He occupied himself with his little thoughts. Someone invented the paperclip, thought the man. The train arrived; she didn’t. He looked at his watch, a small computer, wondering if people in the past could’ve loved each other at all.