The red man flashes and the road clears. A few brave
or time-pressed scuttle across the street, throwing their hands at the cars
that wait - somewhere between an apology and a warding off. I hold back.
She leans back, scowling at him. He must have said
something stupid. He takes this as an
invitation and leans further in. They move with one another. I think I see a
hand feel out her knee, but my vantage point isn’t ideal. I stroll over to the
other foot of the scaffolding, look around and lean on a pole, the smug, mapped
out routine of an insecure douchebag.
She rolls her eyes almost comically, as he mumbles
words at her. He must have a whole arsenal of stupid things to say as it sets
off a Ferris wheel of irritation. Then she clicks her lips and its clear that
she is ready to respond. He senses this and leans back, his hand slipping from
her knee as if to fortify himself against the coming barrage of words.
The white man beckons across the avenue crossing but I
know that I am too invested to leave. I sense my place in the scene as the
necessary observer. I am the audience goading the players. They are playing for
me.
I need not lean in to hear her grievances. She has in
fact remarkable projection and maybe even a history of public speaking, or at
least fighting. She leans forward from her seat on the scaffolding, while her
hands accentuate each accusation. In the flurry of activity, I find myself watching
rather than listening. He turns his face away, offering pathetic endearments to
try and pacify her, but she is in full flight. At one point she moves to stand
up but then self-consciously sits back into the scaffolding, she must know she
is in for the long haul.
The red man flashes as she rages. This time, no one
sneaks across the street. They all take their places around the scaffolding. A girl
comes up next to me and, looking around, pauses her music. The Shins in all their greatness never had the lungs of this woman.
A man steps up to join the cluster of pedestrians and
the couple disappears behind him. This image suddenly seems ludicrous as his
great hands remove a tissue from his pocket. A soundtrack of expletives accompanies
him as he moves the tissue to his nose and blows twice. Its over. Looking up, the man buries the tissue in his pocket and
walks. The woman falls silent and tilts her head away.
I push off the pole and without looking back, see his
hand feel out her knee. And she waits patiently for her audience to reassemble.
