Downtime

    She has no idea she is holding up traffic.

    She minces across Market Street, measuring each stride, stepping gingerly across the streetcar rails to keep from catching a heel in the grooves.

    She has no idea they are watching her from the hotel. The bar staff is taking bets on whether she is headed there and arguing over whose section she'll sit in if she enters.

    She clutches a dainty peau de soie envelope to her chest with one hand. The other holds her skirt, as if to protect the hem from scraping the pavement or being spackled with mud by passing cars. Her skirt is not long, falls just above the knee, and the street is not muddy, not even wet, so her hyper caution exacerbates the farce of her gait.

    Stella offers the first ante.

    "OK. I've got two says she's coming in." They keep bets low, so that even on a streak no one wins big. It's considered unseemly to open with stakes higher than an hour's wage. "She orders a bourbon, I'm buying it. She drinks from the well, I'm on for two rounds." Drinks are also a common wager, because employees don't pay full price, and if the bartender on duty likes the loser, the person doesn't pay at all. But score is always kept. "Cosmo, lemon drop, or anything blended, someone owes me."

    Russ just started, and he wants to get in with his co-workers. From where he stands, Stella is right on, but he'll be a sport. "I'm good for that."

    "How much you good for?"

    "I'm good for your two. And then two."

    Stella raises her eyebrows and the bartender exchanges a look with a kitchen guy who has paused while delivering a tray of cocktail glasses to observe the observations. Russ wonders if his move will be read as he meant it—a definitive offer of camaraderie—or a supercilious gambit.

    Miss Shoes has made it to this side of the street.

    A man in an overcoat and stocking cap hunches away from the battered blue suitcase he wheels behind him, a piece of luggage that has never been heaved onto a baggage carousel. He shambles past the woman, crosses in front of the audience inside the picture window. Just past the entrance to the bar, he pauses in front of a newspaper box. He extends a bloated hand toward the headlines, gently fingers the edge of a postcard stuck in the frame of the box's display window. He strokes the high-gloss stock, traces the fuchsia graffiti lettering advertising a DJ event a block away. He tips his head to one side, considering the card, considering perhaps whether to take it with him, slip it in the zippered pocket of his valise.

    The movement in the window behind him draws his attention and he traipses toward the cluster, cutting the woman off before she reaches the door. The group in the window has caught her glance too and she stumbles into him.

    The assembly disperses without comment, without seeing how the encounter is resolved.