I see a young man on the sidewalk, wearing nothing but satin boxer shorts, no shirt, how shiny those boxers, how pale his chest, policemen stationed either side. The man is as hazy as the sky was yesterday. All three look in different directions, trying to make a decision. Where has this man come from? Where does he need to go? The only clarity is, who is wearing clothes, and who doesn't.
Same day, next hour, the sun splattering more wildly, wind tapping the hairless head of an old woman in the middle of the road. She is gaunt, harrowed, dazed. Median strip, traffic roaring, a policeman and policewoman either side. They wear blue gloves: is her skin dangerous. They hold her. She is wearing nothing but a short raincoat, no bottoms.
What is it about Fridays.
c. Z Soboslay 2015.
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