The Other Side of the Street

There goes Robert, bundled up against the weather, walking through the parking lot across the street. I’m at Bauhaus, reading a book and drinking cocoa. I only see Robert from behind, but his left glasses lens is visible from this angle. His face is lopsided or his glasses are askew or his head is turned slightly this way, and there’s that big lens. It feels like he’s staring back at me through it.

I went to see Master and Commander last night. The fire alarm went off in the theater and the audience was herded outside. They fed us free passes and sent us away. But before that happened, there was a scene in the movie where the ship was preparing for battle. Aubrey lifted a spyglass up to his eye to study the enemy ship. He flinched. What he saw in the scope was the French captain standing out on deck, peering back at Aubrey through his own spyglass. That’s what seeing the lens staring at me from the other side of Robert’s head feels like. Robert sometimes stops by my usual haunts to see if I’m around to buy him coffee. And I assume that he was just in here, and that he either didn’t spot me, or he decided that he’d be bothering me if he did come over to talk. (Chances are, I would have been bothered.)

Now he’s passed out of sight behind a building. There are no sidewalks on that side of the street. I guess he might be camped out under the overpass.