Synapse of a Mañana

Across the street, walking out the door early this morning, a rotund man in his forties running full speed in his grey and red wool sweater. I just kinda stared, fiddling with both bike door in the blue-grey light. He bolted, picking up speed. He dodged a tamale cart, deftly cleared some kinda orange box strewn on the road, let out a whistle and disappeared behind the quick-moving delivery truck. The truck quickly passed, and he appeared behind it. He pushed his balding tuft of hair downwards - creating a final five-step burst of speed - jumped up, grabbed the bar, and slammed the edge of the truck with his open palm, spurring it onwards into the day.

I said "wow" loud enough that the 60-something woman with the frizzy hair and the frizzy dog looked me in the eye with their respective, quizzical stares.