While stopped at a red light, I looked to the right and saw a man huddled on the sidewalk, crying. His knees were pulled to his chest, his back was against the brick wall of a Thai restaurant, and his face was twisted in anguish, but my windows were rolled up, providing a barrier between me and him, which made staring more comfortable, so I decided to open the roof, and the car filled with the piercing wail of the man on the sidewalk. I cringed at the pathetic explosion bursting from his lungs, but figured I wouldn’t have long to listen. It shouldn’t have been much more than a few seconds before the traffic light turned green, and the crying man would be in my rearview mirror, but before the line of vehicles in front of me began to accelerate, I saw a young jogger, blond and svelte and tan, his white shoes and red vinyl shorts the only things that covered his sculpted body. With long, effortless strides, the jogger swiftly approached the crying man and, rather than go around, unsuccessfully attempted to hurdle him and fell hard on the sidewalk, skinning both of his knees, his palms, and one of his elbows. The man on the sidewalk continued to cry, uninterrupted, even after the young jogger regained his footing and punched him on the side of his head before returning to his afternoon jaunt, and as traffic finally began to move on, I found myself driving alongside the jogger, his body still practically flawless, except for the blood that ran down his legs, into his shoes, which only now made him appear a little bit dangerous or rugged or, in other words, even more beautiful than before, and as I drove with one eye on the road and the other on the jogger, I swore he cracked a smile, possibly thinking of the story he now had to tell later that night at the bar while intoxicated coeds traced the abrasions on his palms and stared at his defined abdominal muscles, and at the next intersection, I sharply turned without signaling but stopped short before striking the jogger with the fender of my car, yet his legs gave out from under him. This time, when he pulled himself up off the concrete, he screamed and spit and slammed his fist on the hood of my car. He even tried to open my door, but it was locked, so I laughed at him, and as he limped his way to the curb, I stepped on the gas.
Alec: The Years Have Pants