#33

A dizzying descent down 14 flights of stairs. The pop of a door pushed open by eager hands. Sunlight. Piercing tired corneas. A weathered picnic table resting on a small patch of dirt and grass and ivy, surrounded by concrete and fencing and the never ending wash of automobiles scooting from, to. A man, reclined on the bench of the table. Staring at a branch in the tree above him. Counting the pine needles it possesses. The only thing diverting his attention a swiftly passing cloud, pure white and in the shape of a dog’s head.