A bag of unknown things sits next to seven or eight white sticks lined in descending order. Nearby, lay a morsel of black dust. His hands break the ninth stick and empties its flakes into the dust pile. Cigarettes. Used, smoked and butted. Ones which the original smoker didn’t burn till the filter. These were chosen carefully for the potential of their leftovers. In his hand, a brown pipe that he wouldn’t put down. Trembling hands struggle to tear the eight half-smoked cigarette.
Eight hours of non-stop work and all one needs is a 30 minute solitary cab ride to un-focus. Riding fast or slow, rarely matters. The stillness of things in the back seat, the displacement of self and the silencing sights and sounds of chaos are marvellous. Uneventful, today is like yesterday that bears striking resembles to the day before. Traffic jams are not much of a bother. I like it when it eats up wasteful time.
Eyes blink slowly as the mind draws a blank. Head tilted and resting on the side of a window, gazing aimlessly as other living being pass by. The taxi halts as the lights turn red. Between two parked cars, there is a opening. Boredom forces me to stare. He is on his knees, cloaked in over sized rags. A once white piece of cloth spread neatly before him. Was he praying?
Clutch, Gear 1, Release.
The taxi moves and he’s gone.