This morning at the corner of Flushing and Throop (right by lovely Woodhull Hospital), I saw a strangely compelling/moving scene.
A tallish man stood on the corner, waiting for the light to change. He wore sunglasses, a black overcoat, black pants, and spotless black wing tips. Next to him stood a shorter woman with an mod-type haircut, also arrayed in all black. They stood as close to one another as you can without touching, as if they wanted to be closer but couldn’t afford to be seen doing so.
The man bent slightly and offered a drag on his cigarette to the woman. She obliged. The light changed, and they crossed the street, swiftly but not in a hurry.
I thought I was watching a scene from a French New Wave movie. The two lovers have just dispatched of the woman’s husband. Now they’re on their way to the bank, to nervously empty her joint bank account before anyone knows the hated husband is dead. Next, they will embark on a hopeless road trip, where they will commit more meaningless crimes before being gunned down by police in the middle of nowhere. In the end, their love meant everything, and nothing…
Except that standing to the left of these two characters was an enormous man in a vintage NBA-Jam-era Phoenix Suns Starter jacket, faded into navy blue from washing. And he jammed an Egg McMuffin in his huge maw, spraying crumbs to and fro, like he was afraid the thing would squirm away from him if he didn’t finish it fast enough.
Stupid reality, intruding on the movie in my head.
