Postcard

Late afternoon. Overhead the sky is gray and threatening; below the cobblestones are slick with rain and perspiration. In the center of the district stands the library; a monolith dwarfing the nearby plaza. The weather has forced much of the day's traffic inside; but through the mist and raindrops you see two young gentlemen sitting on the granite ledge adjacent to the steps of the library. They are in their teens; their shoulders are slumped in that familiar nonchalant fashion and they rest easily against the damp walls. They share a cigarette, passing it back and forth after puffing on it for a bit. One of them wears a worn fleece jacket, the logo partially eroded. He shivers every now and then and digs his hands into his pockets. He moves erratically, endlessly; his legs dangle over the ledge, his fingers twitch with a restless rhythm, he blinks and glances upward and around, eyes pulled by the magnetic turns of a pleated skirt or the ripples dancing in the fountain. A girl laughs at something her friend said. He watches her until she turns around; each strand of hair is a mottled brown, each freckle a virgin world. For a second, he feels certain that he knows everything about her; her favorite book, her secret crush, the dimple that appears when she smiles, the song she always listens to by herself. Something else captures his eye, his gaze wanders; she walks, onward and out of his life. He smokes a bit more.

Besides him, his friend looks away toward the distant outskirts of town; he sees a thousand cars and legs pass by. His eyes remain fixated on one section of the town, vague stirrings on the fringes of his vision coming into sharper focus and leaving just as quickly. Women in denim jackets and black leather boots talk on their cellphones, a girl on a red Vespa with a hundred multicolored trinkets attached to her backpack, the first vicious bite into a warm waffle dripping with moist chocolate syrup; the exuberant way some couples make the V-shape with their fingers when they take a photograph in front of the fountain (two rosy-cheeked cherubs riding a pair of Pisces), the firm untwisting sound of a just-opened bottle; the rapid chatter of the old world in a new age; a layer of light drizzle casts a reflective sheen on the world. A child in a yellow raincoat runs ahead of his parents chasing a shadow, and suddenly a flock of pigeons takes flight; he stops and looks up; many wings beat in discordant motion; he watches them fly from the edge of his vision to the edge of his memory; black shapes rise and fade into an overcast sky; he turns to go, the birds no longer exist in his mind; five years later he will not recall this, fifty years later he will remember less. A moment in time, an intersection in space when the lives of many are all together; connected, exclusive; for that second, there are no others in the world.

A train of smoke writhes languidly, tracing out a curious language in the air. The friend flicks the cigarette away. It's done. The smoke disperses, and carries away on the October wind.

Take a picture.

­­­­­­­­­­­