Click: Snarling

Click: true moments collected over the years. Stories too short for the stage.

Muggy afternoon. Fraying tempers. A waitress sweeps the sidewalk, lost in a daydream, until a skeletal woman – hair carefully arranged inside a plastic bag – leaps at her, snarling, grabs the broom away, screaming.

Shaking the long wooden handle, the scraggly bristles. Her tube-top struggling to keep shrunken breasts hidden.

The waitress stands with an uncertain smile until Tube-Top throws down the broom, stomps away, and she begins to sweep again.

When the sidewalk is spotless, Tube-Top strides up purposefully and – eyes locked with the waitress, balls up a piece of newspaper and drops it.

And another, and another.

And I am too far away to hear her words as she hollers. But I am entranced. More than anything else I want her to grab the broom again and sit astride and run faster, and faster.

Until she soars away on a hot metallic wind.

Photo D. Robert Wolcheck