Fat Andy genuflects over weekenders’ windshields (great spot, right!), scans dashboard detritus and tries the passenger handle – the Sunday loafer mating dance.
Summer rain coalesces between the avenues, the gentle hiss of a steam valve slowly opened. On the patio above the leaves, water whispers down leaf runnels, only the undersides hear it fall.
It could be freezing for all there’s no life on the street, except sounds are rounder and ripple up the avenues, and people have time to be snippy, probably because they’d prefer to wear birthday suits and curse asphalt.
The reservoir is a summer postcard, hazy horizon swallowed in the advance of cherry trees nodding heavy before an east sea wind.
The luxury of a Sunday morning bike ride planned and cancelled before getting out of bed for late brunch.
Trees throw canted light, the dot dot dot dash of new leaf semaphore.
Shadows of Spring’s parade bloom in the gutter, petal confetti spent, profligate in life.
Apple blossoms’ upside down umbrellas, leaf handles fixed to pink concave petals, vernal prophylactics fail spectacularly before the west wind, pomegranate seeds cascade towards the baby’s open mouth.
Recent thrift store acquisition, good enough to carry home, runs the 20-block gauntlet from store to door, a mobile garage sale for the judging public; they take a pass.
Shopping loudly, she says, “why don’t you pick out something for tonight,” his consolation prize for interrupting her Saturday ritual. He pushes, she tosses, he means well, she doesn’t. They head towards Checkout.