The merry go-round.

It was on the third pass that I noticed the woman. In truth, I hadnt even noticed her,
I noticed her curly, golden pup that walked a few quick dog steps ahead of her on,
what I noticed the fourth time past, a semi-frayed leash.

I was downtown seeking refuge in a half-submerged coffee shop, called in by the
open arms of the white and green mermaid princess and the free bathroom
privileges she has really come to indicate with her prolificacy in this city. I stayed for
the warmth and dryness, as the skies had opened just before I had made it inside.
Which made the woman and her dog an even more unusual presence, further
waterlogged each time she passed by in the window.

It was on that third pass that my subconscious mind brought the recurrence of the
woman and her dog to my attention. She wasnt old, not by modern standards, and
her capri-length stretch pants revealed calves and ankles relatively untouched by
spider veins, wrinkles, or age spots, very little loose skin. Just a few bruises, which is
not an uncommon occurrence in a place that constantly throws you into other
moving obstacles, such as people, and considers it par for the course in getting
around. She walked just a tad slower than the usual quick pace of that particular
stretch of the financial district sidewalk.

My conscious brain took note, but ultimately decided to go back to whatever it was
thinking about beforehand.

It was on the fourth pass that I considered this woman and her dog to be a strange
artifact of the cityscape before me. Two times passing is certainly no oddity. It was
midafternoon, when people stretch their office legs, scurrying to grab a coffee and
get back to their desk. The mystery woman, however, only passed right to left. There
was no return trip.

She was gone again, but I decided to keep watch for her return, eager to glean a few
more clues from her next orbit of the block.


Finishing out
Examining repetition in human existence
Sorrow loss loneliness exhibited by the woman but mirrored in the protagonist