A strange man was staring intently at something on the pavement.
I stopped to see what he was looking at.
He glanced at me, and in his eyes, I saw something that I didn’t care to examine.
Then he lifted his hat, put it back on his head, and walked off, lighting a cigarette.
His footsteps sounded gravelly on the pavement, which was slick with the drizzle that had rained down for the past hour.
The heavens were grey.
The houses huddled together.
A faint haze clouded the world, just so you couldn’t make out what was in the distance, but you couldn’t be entirely sure it was a fog.
‘What were you looking at?.’
The man vanished into the not-fog.
And there was nothing on the pavement.
I hurried along, feeling self conscious, somehow. Why did I stop. I don’t know.
I was expecting to see a dead rabbit, it’s body ripped apart so the insides spilled out and plastered onto the elements.
I was expecting to see a hole leading right down to the other side of the world, assuming the world was round, that is.
I was expecting to see the secrets of life in an open book. Why else would a man be so fascinated?
I don’t know.
Why was the strange man staring at the pavement?
When I got home, my roommate told me that sometimes people have private thoughts which the world has no business trying to get a hold of.
‘You can’t just pick up the phone, Penny, and ask what’s up.’
But you can, that is what phones are for.
I really wanted to know.