You burst out of the Starbucks. You see a red Hyundai. There, against the curb, a red Hyundai. A Hyundai tangled in vines.
And the vines are moving. Festooning, coiling, winding vines.
You assume this is an art-school project—performed by an attention-seeking student of the School of the Art Institute of Chicago—and forge ahead, down Clark Street.
You sojourn southward. You drift down Clark Street, drifting spectrally. Padding the sidewalk. Toward the Clark/Fullerton intersection.
It is a breezy, balmy day, and the sun is bobbing into your vision like an overripe plum.
Sunlight spreads across the sky like a piña colada spilling across a grey table cloth, the cream of coconut and pineapple juice mingling together in a yellowish-white swirl.
You pass a shop window. On the window, the word HARMONY is painted in blue. The word HARMONY is bisected into sagittal planes—HARM and ONY—and you recognize, for the first time, that the letters H, A, R, and M are contained in the word “harmony.”
Coming toward you is a man with shoe-polish skin and white hair. His expression, vacant, is one of an entranced mystic. He is wearing a bright-red button-down shirt and black trousers.
Avoid. The man with shoe-polish skin and white hair passes on your right. He tongues the air as he walks.
A vicenarian woman passes on your left. She is wearing a white halter top and blue jeans shorts. She says to her smartphone:
—I literally closed my mouth when we were making out.
The wind is swelling up. You stare ahead of you as you walk. The telephone wires are shivering. The trees are vibrating madly. You look at the trees, moving back and forth.
It is the violently swinging branches that you cannot stop staring at. They seem animated by something other than wind.
Keep on floating south on Clark Street.
Copyright 2018 by Joseph Suglia