Complex Sclerophyll

If life is a race, then time is the winner. You run as fast as you can, but she has wings, and you thrash forward only to clasp her ever lengthening shadows. Crystal shuts her notebook.

In front of her, a few passengers sit motionless, spread like a hand of cards, their true selves withheld behind the identical stoops, except for a rectangular man, chatting to the driver from the side seat, his generous eyes and lips beaming with Southern European warmth. Crystal feels an urge to commit this face to memory. Stirred by her gaze, he turns her way, but she withdraws before their eyes meet.