I used to see the same group of men drinking at the bar inside a grocery store around the block. They reveled, slapped backs, and enjoyed two dollar pints. Yes, I guess it’s a bar. But it’s in a grocery store. What an odd place to be a regular, I thought, peering over my beer each time I saw them. Why, I could never spend so much time at such a place.

There’s a man I often see juggling a soccer ball with a cigarette in his mouth at the air field around the block. Today it’s windy, grey as can be, and looks like it may rain. Why would anyone even be here, at this air field, right now? That’s beyond me, and I lay back down on the damp, cigarette-butt-littered grass.

There’s a woman hitting tennis balls against the backboard at the courts around the block all the time. Who has the time to be playing tennis, of all sports, with such regularity? Has she seen the news? And all that whacking on the backboard is kind of loud when I’m trying to serve.