Damn, forgot the pears he scolded himself and with that he turned and headed out the door again. “Breathe” he said under his breath. 5:30pm and its already dark he thought. There was a chill in the air, but the clouds had cleared and he could see a sky holding a bright half moon, stars and his breath. He didn’t like that, the breath part, summer had lasted forever he thought tugging his coat tighter.

Breathing slowed his pace allowing him to watch the people . As they passed he saw a distinct change in the population, not so white, multiculturalism was working. He liked the mix, but then again, he liked the whole place. No place had ever been as convenient, the pears were barely a block away in the new Safeway.

But the people are so young. Twenty four years ago when they had arrived in the Quay, he had been young, hadn’t he? Then in reflection, that was four grandchildren ago. They all look so fresh faced, so many with babies, there were never so many babies. How did that happen he wondered?

Reaching the top of the overpass he turned into The Plaza and headed for the pears. Overhead he could hear the trains exiting Westminster station in opposite directions.

A sudden gush of people poured down the stairs and rushed to the exits or into stores to pick up last minute items before heading home to the Quay or elsewhere, but mostly they were Quay people. The sound of trains and people foretold of a growing future.

The overpass and the sidewalks were busy with people going up and down the hill. They dressed so modern he thought and then wondered if modern wasn’t a dated word. But then again who was he to wonder, a dated writer locked in his office. The office really the second bedroom were sat pounding away, in an old sweater with worn out elbows.

The people were mostly city workers coming home, fashionably dressed and representing the fashion of the day, he wasn’t. The older he got, the less important fashion became. Words were important, his words and her.

He reached for the pears, damn their hard, she’ll be disappointed, well can’t change that, pick the best three and call it a day he conceded. $2.84 cents, the price of instant gratification and he was off. He continued to be a people watcher, head up, saying Hello to all those who looked back, the smile always returned and both felt better for it.

Opening the front door to his building, he always called it his building he thought I like this Quay, this hood of mine. He smiled and hoped she’d find a pear she liked.

David Hutchison, writer

David Hutchison, Writer All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the written prior permission of the author.