“Well, we’re going to hell in a hand-basket,” he complained, shifting the bulk of his shopping bag from the crook of one arm to another. “Everyone’s looking for a handout these days.”
The people surged past us, each face made beautiful by swiftness. Every feature was blurred. Every disagreement, be it in proportion or ideology, had naturally resolved itself, and all that was left was smooth wind.
“I’m waiting to be changed.” I told him. My muscles were clenched, staying upright in the wind. Crowds were streaming past me as I stood with him. The night before I had dreamed of smooth rocks, the inevitable levels etched by water and time. I had dreamed of floating.
“You know, you’re blocking the way,” he said.
“I’m waiting to be changed,” I said again. He winced. “It doesn’t have to be by you,” I added.
I noticed that his shopping bag was spilling with hearts. The color red, as surprising as tears, trickled and pooled on the outside of the plastic. Here and there, crows glided over our heads.