Walking Man

It's a nice night so I walk home. I pass the tapas bar, the couple coming out of the tapas bar, I know they spent a lot of money and are still hungry. Not there. There's a place a couple blocks up but then I realize it's a couple blocks back. For another night.

I thought I would be too warm, so many layers, but everything's just about right. The wind's picked up and I know my hair looks good, if any girls walked by, which none of them do. When I find a place, when I sit down, then they can see me.

Red light. I could cross the street and go inside but I don't. I know who'll be there and I've been there too many times before. A minute later I pass a place that used to be another place that used to be another. Inside is all guys, greased up and covered in graphics, and one guy who—in the brief seconds I saw him—looks like a hybrid of a soldier and a ninja, a white and grey camouflage number complete with matching sash tied around his head.

With each block I'm running out of options. Construction forces me to the other side and I'm fifteen feet closer to home. But I can't go back there. Empty or not I just can't do it. Not in and straight to the back and shutting the door and turning out the lights and I just won't do it. Not yet.

My cross street. The walking man shows. He's up there, shining down on me, telling me to go, go, to go. Flashing hand, countdown clock, it's now or never, I keep walking, hit the opposite sidewalk just on zero. There were no cars waiting. No one's waiting except for me.

I keep going, keep walking, north. Somewhere there must be a place.