The fox was white and slow and the dogs were hyperactive. But still, that damn fox managed to jump over them. She showed up to work late in ripped jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. Her breath reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. “Why did you even bother coming in?” asked the boss, unamused. “That’s a good question.” She replied smugly. She had no answer. Walking down 3rd (A different 3rd from the third originally mentioned with the city built lamp and frightening shadow), you notice an old lover from high school. “Doreen?” You ask. “Clark?” She responds. You’re both in shock, but neither of you can think of something worthwhile to say, so you just ask, “so what are you doing these days?” Her answer is curt which, after you think about it, is better than being long-winded and boring. After a few minutes you say, “Well I have to get going.” But you don’t have to get going anywhere. You’ll probably just go home and sit around. As you walk away, you pretend to check your wrist watch as if the encounter has made you late for something. Something important. You look back and Doreen is still standing where you left her, staring at cracks in the sidewalk. “I’m never going to a high school reunion,” you promise yourself. He didn’t care that his house had just collapsed in the sinkhole. He was more concerned with medicinal marijuana legislation. He wrote letter after letter to the editors of the major newspapers, but no one ever published them. So he just laid there in his cubicle, with notebook paper scrawled across the floor. “Not a thing worth thinking about,” he thought. Then he remembered the whole sinkhole thing. You’re sitting at a restaurant when your waiter approaches. He tells you the specials for the day, but you don’t pay any attention because you’re too busy staring at the large irregularity on the side of his face. You can’t really even pinpoint what it is. A misshapen goiter? An amalgam of acne scars? A large mole that has been bleached? He interrupts by clearing his throat before repeating, “Can, I, get, you, something, to, drink?” He has accented every word in the sentence. You respond excitedly with, “A Goiter!” He starts to walk away, saddened, or possibly confused, by your answer. “I’m sorry,” you call back. “I’ll have an iced tea. No Lemon.” The flight left her tired and cranky, but it was the only night she had to “see the town,” as she would be in meetings, seminars, and receptions for the next few days. She got in a cab, but she didn’t really know where to go. “Just take me anywhere,” she said. “I want to see all the sights.” But the cab driver just drove her around the city, pointing at buildings and muttering inaudibly. I’ve never felt more alone, she thought to herself, looking at the few random buildings the cabbie was pointing out. He probably just wants my fare to be high, she thought. He’s taking advantage of my being a tourist. The thought didn’t exactly comfort her, but it did make her feel less alone.
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