It's Thursday, but it feels like Tuesday. The sun and the wind beat like it's a Tuesday, and the every weekday drawl is coming through the little cobblestone market square. The whole place is gray painted sheet-metal and yellow borders around the doors and the windows. The cobble is worn to different shades of dirt grey and spotted by shade from the umbrellas and trees. The sun shines glare off the silver tin tables, and the wind whops with swirls in the tiny square. Swift Street. It smells different now. There's still the sweet bakery aromas, still the tall shy-type models working at the boutique next door. No, that hasn't changed.
It's a subtle bite in the air. A familiar feeling that's missing. This hole isn't home anymore. Life's picked up and moved on. Things have changed. There's a ghost in me of the shadow past, and now I'm sneaking through this younger world now, and everything looks like weed.
And my trim hand's cramping.
