I'm waiting to meet a new person. I'm wearing a crop top and shorts, both black. It has been warm today and now the haar is rolling through the city fast. I'm getting goosebumps but I still need to cool myself internally and dry out the areas with the most sweating. Inevitably, the sun is still shining through the mist so I'm wearing sunglasses. I'm still hypervigiliant, and glasses afford a more liberated scanning process across the streets.
That's not him. They just seemed to walk with purpose, but I suppose most people do. Except the ones that some people call unfortunates. They are outwardly hopeless, like there wasn't enough room inside for the thick and poisonous abandon and it starts pouring out their face, their eyes. I mean maybe there is hope in there. "You shouldn't judge a book by it's cover" and all that. But it doesn't seem like there is hope left. A girl who could be my age, or ten years younger, hobbled along the street, stopping every few meters. When I first saw her, she appears to stop suddenly with her hands rushing to her face as her whole body doubled at the waist. It was a perfect and tragic visual for the word, "anguish".
The person I'm meeting is here now.