a newspaper kiosk

the man inside has run this kiosk since a year that no longer maps cleanly onto the calendar. he has a small radio and a thermos and a chair that has shaped itself to him. customers arrive in the order they always arrive: the runner at six, the priest at seven, the woman who only buys envelopes at quarter past.

today's paper is folded into a stack that will reach his elbow before noon. the new headlines have not surprised him. the headlines do not, after a while; they merely arrive on time, like a bus that does not need announcing.

field note: he sells one map to a stranger and looks for a long moment at the door after it closes.