the flat affect

A molecule off a tickertape counter must have graced Clemenceau Avenue on the fifth of January, two-thousand and fifteen, for as a bus pulled into a stop, its doddery air-conditioning pipe leaked water clandestinely onto the road, drops running together as the bus slowed to let loose its beeping brood into a stock of villas opposite – and now morphing into a third black stripe gracing the two yellows (parking, forbidden) on the grey tarmac – and now it has left, is picking up speed and streaking away from the poor sweat-sodden businessman with overflowing breath, vacuum gusting air that waves his tie good-bye over his shoulder, while the poor man, vanquished, stares at the growing blanks between the punctiform splashes, vivisected upon his lost road.
I confess – I have been walking out and giving the foul cough to the lambs that fled past on the street.