(no subject)
i had a brush with death this morning.
there's a girl who invariably appears at church and market every thursday around half past seven. we all know how it works: suspicions of subcultural alignment lead to furtive glances, which in turn blossom into deliberate smiles, and perhaps even a silently mouthed 'hey.' it seems to have reached a glass ceiling, however--and no one's posting a missed connection.
and so today i found myself paused at a red light, lost in the possibility that the upcoming holiday might cause said party to show up ahead of schedule. the other pedestrians were nearly across the street by the time i glanced up, and i started out still completely self-absorbed. it's an odd and dangerous intersection, though, with legal turns on red coming from several directions...
a black jetta was already halfway down the block, easily going thirty miles per hour, when i realised its side mirror had clipped me on the elbow. rather than pain, or even anger, i felt a strange sense of amusement, and finished crossing before looking back down & noticing the book in my hands--an early paperback edition of saul bellow's the victim; the cover stylised in that 50s line drawing sort of way.
it showed a scale, with the chalk-white outline of a human figure in each balance.
there's a girl who invariably appears at church and market every thursday around half past seven. we all know how it works: suspicions of subcultural alignment lead to furtive glances, which in turn blossom into deliberate smiles, and perhaps even a silently mouthed 'hey.' it seems to have reached a glass ceiling, however--and no one's posting a missed connection.
and so today i found myself paused at a red light, lost in the possibility that the upcoming holiday might cause said party to show up ahead of schedule. the other pedestrians were nearly across the street by the time i glanced up, and i started out still completely self-absorbed. it's an odd and dangerous intersection, though, with legal turns on red coming from several directions...
a black jetta was already halfway down the block, easily going thirty miles per hour, when i realised its side mirror had clipped me on the elbow. rather than pain, or even anger, i felt a strange sense of amusement, and finished crossing before looking back down & noticing the book in my hands--an early paperback edition of saul bellow's the victim; the cover stylised in that 50s line drawing sort of way.
it showed a scale, with the chalk-white outline of a human figure in each balance.