A man holds a garbage bag full of rumpled white paper towels. He puts his cigarette out inside a big USPS Mailbox. His eyes pingpong in their sockets.
A kid riding a too-small bike has a haircut that makes it look like he’s receding.
A very fat woman wearing a lavender T-shirt plays on an iPad while her five dirty children run around her in circles.
A girl on roller blades wearing plaid cutoffs wheels a black cat down the hall by my studio.
The girl who lives on the first floor of my building sells pink lemonade, I want to buy some, but have no cash; she offers, “Lemonade?” I say, “no thanks.” She won’t make eye contact when I tell her “good luck” on my way out.
In front of the building where I keep my studio, a man wearing jeans takes a picture of a printed email that’s been taped to the gate with blue painter’s tape.
An old, thin man on a geriatric scooter makes his way across the street via a light that’s not in his favor.
The six-word memoir
Here’s mine for today:
Delayed understanding is her specialty.