In the window I see a white, polyester curtain pulled back by Mexican hands. The man spies me looking at him; I am awaiting a bus and stretching my groin.

In the rented room above the combination flower shop-convenience store, the man sees the same Friday morning rush hour traffic that I do.

High school children don’t want to be dropped off at school by their parents; they rather be dropping out, getting high. You can see the lack of engagement in their secret handshakes.

Meanwhile, drivers hit speed limits with a roar and no regard for their fellow man as if they snorted too much speed in a race against the clock. Like me, the Mexican man shows no expression to the verve. A grim acceptance, perhaps.

A rotund white woman eating oatmeal at the bus stop with a plastic spoon and out of a Tupperware bowl, dribbles a spot of it on one of her melon-sized breasts. I watch her scrape the oatmeal from her sweater with her spoon and imagine her like a highly trained trick seal balancing a rainbow colored beach ball from the bridge of her nose.

A friend of mine suggested I become an international art thief under the nickname ‘silver fox’. He’s suggesting my hair needs a touch of color to restore my youth. In actuality, I tell him, there’s more pay-off under the sheets leaving it the way it is.

My wife says maybe when we’re dead we’ll save a ton of money; reminding me no husband of hers is allowed to be a rodent. I return the favor of her excellent guidance by pleasuring her whichever way she wants it.

The Mexican man lets the veiled white curtain close. Awaiting no promises to unfold, he returns to the bed of his lover.

After my short sojourn downtown, I’ll be back home soon with ideas of doing the same.