waiting

He stood waiting, for no one in particular, but waiting nonetheless.

Water dripped in the etchings on the tall stone pillar, unreadable symbols carved just below where it met the decorative crosspiece at ninety degrees. Following the line and half distracted by the rain, his eyes rested at the opposite corner as if that were sure to be the very spot from which whoever he was waiting on would manifest. For if they did appear, it would not be an arrival with some clear source and direction—his heart could not conceive of such a mundane eventuality in this setting. It would be magic, or it would not be.

The cherry blossoms decorated the pool forming in the street beyond, turning the asphalt into a temporary canvas for fleeting elegance. Another petal fell and, for no particular reason, he turned and walked toward home.