Cicada

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Heat lines wavered over the pavement. The old man watched them from the shade of the station wall. He reached for the bottle of tea next to him; half empty, by now it was quite warm. He drank sparingly, and replaced the cap with studied precision.

He had been there since noon. He had nowhere to go, and no plans other than at some point to make his way up the steps and into the park. When it cooled off a little he would do this, but for now he was content.

Living this way on the street for many years, he had developed a relationship with time; he asked nothing from it, save that it pass, and so it did, indivisible and benign. His actions (waking, moving with his small cart of possessions to the water's edge or to this wall by the station, falling asleep) could bookend segments of time, but he did not count the hours. There was no need.

He cleared his throat and spit. Overhead, a train rumbled onto the platform. He watched as a few people left from the exit nearest to him. One, a young woman, carried an ornate, cream-coloured parasol, complete with lace trim. Her shoulders were wrapped in a plastic shawl, and she stumbled in her heeled shoes, as if she'd never worn such things before. Carefully, she rounded the corner and disappeared.

The old man no longer made up stories about the people he saw; he never gave them names or tried to guess what they did for a living. They were like clouds passing to him now, interesting in their forms, but remote, drifting effortlessly across a distant plane. It had been different when he was younger. The stories he told himself had sustained him, helping to pass the time and to keep him from panicking, but he hadn't had an attack in years. He supposed it was a function of aging.

They told him at the center that he was a kind of success story, but he didn't believe it. There were no success stories on the street, only momentary triumphs amid the long, slow defeat. Still, he knew they brought him up sometimes, as a model of self control. He didn't correct them; there was no reason to. They'd all learn it on their own, or they never would.

Somewhere a cicada began to cry. The sound rose and fell, drowning out the old man's thoughts. He listened to it with his eyes closed. At length it fell silent.