Wednesday

The man is against the wall of 1234 South Michigan Avenue, every Wednesday, with a book. He is not precisely leaning--no--perhaps standing, slanted as if the wall may move. His book is always open, and he is intently reading, almost casually. The book is not flimsy; it is dense with words and pages. He has a beard and his hair is blonde, almost brown. He is in the shade and looking down, one leg crossed over the other so that the tip of his shoe touches the ground.

This is how much I know of him, how much I remember from last summer. I asked him what book he was reading those Wednesday afternoons?  Waiting for someone, a bus? Of course, he never told me. I never asked.