The Old Lady's Face

It started to rain as I made my way back from Tescos. I was carrying two shopping bags, so the best I could do was pull my head into my shoulders and keep walking. A tall, elderly lady shuffled towards me. She steadied herself on a large, cloth, beige shopping trolley that she pushed ahead of her. She stooped beneath the umbrella that she awkwardly tried to hold up, but she still had the sturdiness of a formidable, no-nonsense mother. As she got closer, I looked at her face, getting ready for that 'Bah! Rain!'/'Soft day thank god' exchange that's customary for two people stuck in our damp predicament. Her face was caught in a moment of horror, her mouth held stiffly open and her eyes round and staring. I smiled, waiting for the exaggerated proclamation that would match her face, but she didn't make eye contact and she didn't speak. I guess that was just her everyday expression.

Street Dance

Oh, she wishes it had happened today. She doesn't even remember what he looked like: the average office suit she recalls, but her imagination has added a messy haircut and an unshaven face – some small protest to set him apart from his co-workers. It started with that awkward back-and-forth shuffle of two strangers trying to pass each other on the street; then he grabbed her right hand and put his arm around her waist, swirling her in a mini waltz in the middle of the lunchtime shoppers and angry passersby. He set her down on the pavement and smiled, walking away, stretching his hand behind him as he went. She would understand that moment if it happened now – two people sharing a delicate second in a day that hadn't gone to plan for either of them. But no, when it happened she was sixteen, so she just frowned, trudged away and hoped no one had noticed.

reposted from Six Sentences http://sixsentences.blogspot.com

my favourite bit of dublin street art

The Predictor

He's there everyday, this gap-toothed, grizzled old man standing outside the corner store. Sipping from a can of cider at all times, he wears a stained, mangy trench coat, whatever the weather. Sometimes he's arguing with bearded, long-haired, old drinking buddies; but mostly he's alone. I see him on my walk to work every morning and my heart takes a pause as I approach. Everyone who passes is greeted with either an enthusiastic thumbs up, or a high-pitched, possessed: "Fuck off, ye bastard!" He's become a very reliable predictor of how my day will turn out.

This was originally published on the lovely Six Sentences site.
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Things that made me wistful today:

An asthmatic child, an old man buying cup-a-soup and an arthritic dog that fell over with excitement.