On the red steps a boy in a red hoodie sat alone, smoking a cigarette and watching the tourists. I couldn't tell if he was a tourist himself or not, he was wearing mesh shorts and puffy sneakers, but he didn't have a bag with him. I just watched him and the way he watched the crowd of people, until I bent my head down to light my own filthy habit, and he was staring at me. I looked up, and instinctively looked away, pretending I was interested in the flashing advertisements posted on dead-beat buildings. A few moments later and I glanced his way again. He was still looking at me.
I blew smoke in his direction and blinked, eyes locked on him and his red hoodie.
I didn't know him and never would. I would never see him again, so I openly stared at him.
He blew smoke in my direction and blinked, eyes locked.
We sat on the red steps, sideways, looking at each other. Neither of us smiled, or winked, or moved but to inhale and flick ash.
People moved around us, migrating in school groups and happy couples; sight-seers searching for big lights and souvenirs.
We did too, but in a different time period, so far away from the conversation we were having in blinking morse code and blowing smoke signals through the spring air.
I'm still there
sitting on the red steps, fumbling with the filthy habit filter between my fingers, staring at a boy in a red hoodie.
Blowing smoke in my direction