Scaffolding

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.