the man was smoking two cigars.

in each hand, a stumpy stogy was pinched between unexpected knuckles. he marched like one would normally stroll, casual but studious of his surroundings, but a march it was, and he didn't sense my dog and i ten feet in his wake. the smell was of antique armchairs and reminded me of a childhood friend's visiting grandfather. at the intersection, instead of turning and staying on our quiet block, he glided over to the unplowed sidewalks of roads i've never even bothered to notice.

the trees were taller on those streets, i noticed then, straining unpleasantly in attempts to reach the sun. even long after my dog and i turned the corner, the smell was still there, soaked into my sweatshirt.

BRIAN OUT.