“It’s very very very likely that I won’t be letting you across sir.” The officer’s words came from somewhere behind some ‘stache, stuck like a limpid on his upper lip. If only opened its base a little, like a dustpan brush, to let the words fly out.

He was mostly alright about the change of plans. He would have to reroute – through the park – to make it on time. The impression of him would likely be unchanged though, he was still two hours late. The rain on the side walk, tossing rays of sun right into his eyes, inspired him. A rainfall never came when it was due, always late, always early. Yet people accepted like an artefact of life. Some band of scientists gathered one day and unanimously agreed that, yes, although the weather was entirely chaotic and unreadable, it would benefit the general good if various predictions were made about it and made public. These predictions would be entirely wrong – but, would this not stir a mix of interest into those droll lives about? So as rain fell, the sun shone, and the bluest of forecasts were brushed with looming grey and threw hair.

And everyone was very happy about this.

The happiness, he realized, was not because of the terrible predictions. People might be droll, but they still had some wit in their wet machines. What people indulge in is an antagonist, and one that they can all mutually battle. Those meteorologists had nominated themselves to the position of Eternal Public Enemy Number One. And, like a car crash on the road might make you late for work but for that reason you also thank the accident, people prefer their weather served unpredictable.

The officer’s ‘stache was still on its way down from the last twitch by the time he got the park. No one had told the sun it was time to shine here yet, so it was busy figuring that part out. Little droplets hung off all the leaves that were still alive, which was very few. The gardener was never, never early, but every day would mow the lawn, blow the leaves, and pat the soil. Winter was rampant and nothing green even considered the option of growing at this time.

As he walked between a path straddled by dead hedgework, he saw a man on all fours, just under one of the hedges, where something brown, mangled – entirely unidentifiable from here, was wedged in the ground. With one gloved hand, the man was patting a circle right around this item. And then as he passed, his brain finally figured out what was going on: the gardener patting the soil around a dead bush. He checked his watched and quickened his pace.

By the time he ducked under the gate of the park, back onto the wet side walk mirrors, he had it all straight. In fact, so straight, he could see it now: his client, not scolding his tardiness, but rather, him folded in half at the waist – a very deep bow – appreciative, respectful, beaming. Appreciative, respectful, beaming. The thought! It carried from the brew of his mid-brain and began to fill the parts yet untouched. His fingers fizzed, toes curled, and his arms felt warmer than they had since breakfast. He almost stopped to peer into a puddle and check he was not swelling from all this emotional congestion, but the tick of his watch moved him on.

Two blocks away he stopped at a crosswalk in a very pedestrian manner: his toes just over the edge, body about ten degrees off the horizontal, ready to strike. Ten times, he simulated the motions of a start-walk, ten times he stopped short of falling into the road. The green came right after he had pulled back from an eleventh simulation. His legs went in two ways at once and the next time he blinked he was on the floor with an ache in his shoulder. He made to get up in a way that would make the fall look purposeful – part of a new trend. His slid his foot wide, sort of embraced his soaking jacket, ran his hands along the pavement endearingly. Then, every end effector in position, he leapt all at once, like a frog on fire, and hopped to his feet.

The top of his head came up and introduced itself to someone’s under chin.

“Argggh! God. God! Arggh,” a choking, high-pitched series of noises then followed this.

The top of the head is a curious spot, for it has been proven – undeniably – that a ten-ton mallet delivered hard onto it will bring the owner of the top of the head zero pain. The opposite result happens to the under chin.

He was torn in two by indecision: the green walking light had now began a countdown, but next to him was a lady clearly in distress. He checked his watch.

Five. He looked at the walking sign, at a two blocks down to the cafe where he was due over two hours ago now.

Four. He looked at the under chin he had struck, at the face attached to that chin. It had hid its eyes from view in tight squeezes, some tears had still leaked out though.

Three. He looked down at the puddle he had sprawled in a moment ago, considered the weather again, and then drifted to the image of the gardener, patting the ground around the dead body of a bush.

Two. He turned toward the walking sign, scowled at the depiction of a very soft human it presented. He imagined a human that might look like that and was surprised to find he did know one: his friend, Hoisin, looked identical. He blinked. Yes, it was undeniable.

One. He nodded at Hoisin, blinking, and turned back to the lady. He extended a hand forward, opened his mouth, and began an improvisation show in his mind. The show was about a sly, disorganized, throw-out, pretending to be a cordial gentleman. “Ma’am, I am terribly sorry – “

A pain seized his face. The under chin may be a painful spot, but a strike there is ketchup compared to the hot sauce of the cheek. He did not like spicy sauces, but he was forced to deal with the spicy sauce of a cheek strike, rubbing both his hands on the spot. It was like trying to douse a flame with a shot glass of ethanol. His mouth made the word who? but never said it. He looked up and saw the lady who, only a moment ago had been in a state of under chin agony, now standing above him. She shook her hand in quick whips, evicting some invisible suds.

His mind flooded him with a second chemical wave. This one was full of little bits of something called gratitude. It made for a novel stew in his veins, the gratitude swimming about with the adrenaline from the pain. All it took was three full seconds and he was choked, head to toe ends, with a double helping of this stew. Filled up, he looked up, at the eyes of his deliverer. No longer squeezed away, the eyes were very informative. They read like a newsreel might fire off the daily misfortunes of others in that nonchalant manner of speech. Each eye was embedded in a face built of interconnected lines, criss-crossing to bring about a form. Those lines told about the ways in which this face liked to fold. There were quite prominent ones near the brow, which pointed down, stronger etchings near the lips, which curled. And by the eyes, like whiskers, three or four deep cuts. These were tired from supporting a constant state of wincing.

“How do you do,” he said. He extended his hand forward and made a half bow.