Directions.

A usual frame walks from the door to the path.
Our man walks on concrete between the frighteningly similar houses, and the tinted, faded flowers of late summer.
Then begins tedious cosmopolitan music, and all life seems bright.
Maybe a cat wanders by and he smiles.
Xylophones play upbeat melodies.
Does he stand at a train station?
Then go sit, have a coffee in an unnamed, generic café.
I follow Anonymous through the busy streets, he’s in bright clothes, no one else is.
Grey suits and black ties and grey-black hair.

Not so suddenly Woman appears.
How will they greet each other?
A loveless hug a not too awkward smile. A frown.
The hug filled with space lasts a short time, a high spirited woman chirps up a conversation.
“It’s happening again.”
And moral panic ensues in my head.