Remnants of what was.
He knots his fingers and leaves clean stripes in any skin he rubs. Head down, muttering at speed. I am a distance away, my gaze wanders across lined features and the weathered cloth of a twine tied coat. A finger hails a svelt server, monies change hands and doggie bagged food is brought to my wobbly legged table.
He takes his time manouvering the unseen enemies and mine laden traps. Four minutes to walk six foot of the busy pavement. Lunchtime staff moan and gripe as he blocks the path and swallows a moment of the hour of freedom they have. A pensioner’s rhumy eyes spot him. He nods knowingly, pats his arm and dodders on. Martin is oposite me now only one road to cross. Hunched over he scans the tarmackadam road takes an audible breath then runs like his life depends on it. A horn blasts a voice shouts obscenities and he is gone. I will try again tomorrow. With sisterly love and a heavy heart I tip the server and leave.