All his fat life he was a spectator and something about his steadfast silence and brazen size inured people to his vigils. Pale cigarettes could last ten minutes in his clutch. One day he stood smoking among a herd of standing bikes, his other hand to a bag of groceries. The neighborhood ambled longly before him, busses moved through the square and it might have been any day ten years prior, save the lightening that was about to strike.
An unknown woman walked by with her legs and a love like he’d never known hit him just as grapefruit piques a thirst. For a man so thoroughly accustomed, he felt himself a stranger in season.