Flow like flowers faded
Days are passing. The sun rises, the sun sets, and passes the torch to the moon; a dimmer one, of course - its limelight must not be surpassed.
The mornings are grey, getting older, colder. I wear my coat and a scarf around my neck even if the temperature does not yet call for artifical cocooning - I have a cold which refuses to abandon me, but it's letting go slowly if reluctantly.
Some days ago the morning train ran late. We were parked for nearly ten minutes due to a signal fault. At the interchange, a woman I have seen many times before spoke to me as we reached our usual platform, exasperated at having missed our connecting train.
We conversed in English, at first, until I asked her if she was from Hong Kong.
"Yes," she smiled warmly.
I explained my own origins, and expressed that I could speak Mandarin, so we switched tongues and spoke a little more until the next train wormed its way into the station; we disappeared through different crevices into its metal belly.
Since that morning, she would say hello to me in Mandarin when she sees me, and we would exchange daily pleasantries for some minutes.
Once on the train, she would greet her colleagues, and they would greet her back with the same, warm familiarity, then they would speak about the parts of their lives which I will never know about.
~~~~~
It was raining and there was not quite enough room for both our umbrellas to fit above the sidewalk as we carried them over our heads like black mushrooms.
We stopped briefly at the craft shop where I hunted for specific material before detouring via a favourite music shop, from which I didn't buy anything.
Lunch at a cafe which we'd walked past several times but never stopped at. The lone waiter was very slow. There was a large advertising sign hanging on the wall to my left which appeared to have been made by hand rather than printed. Salt crystals, strange pepper with shredded ribbons, bread with vinegar, olive oil and sesame seeds.
A petite young thing who looked as if she'd just walked off the cover of a girlie mag conversed with her perhaps-boyfriend over a latte. After they left, there was only us for a little while. Some time later, an animated bunch of lunch-timers bounced in and eventually sat themselves further inside.
I bopped slightly to the music, being dark and nondescript.
29 March 2002, Friday, 6:30 PM
Alter ego of dandruff
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