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It's Saturday afternoon. I'm drinking cuba libras with Alexis on a sidewalk patio on College Street in the sun. I'm beginning to squint so I put on my Ray-Bans and drum my fingers on the table. I sip my drink and trace my index finger through the water ring on the shiny vinyl placemat, then around the matchbook next to the ash tray. In the reflection of my sunglasses, Alexis can watch the clouds slide from my left eye, disappear behind the bridge of my nose, and reappear again in my right eye.

I'm watching the street. There is enough activity that I can pretend to be interested in people, in things happening on the sidewalk. I don't have to rest my undivided attention on Alex.

There's a guy sitting on a cement tree pot filled with cigarette butts and a dead sapling. He has spiked hair and a dog lying asleep at his feet. He smokes and asks for money between drags. Sometimes I look at people with whom I have nothing in common, and I imagine that, for at least five minutes each, I have already been everybody else I ever see, and that in the next five minutes I will be somebody else, without knowing I was just me five minutes ago. In five minutes, I will be sitting on a cement tree with my dog asleep at my feet, smoking and looking for spare change, thinking I've always been this guy. I will look across the street at a man with Ray-Ban sunglasses sitting on a patio, drinking cuba libras, and I'll hate his guts. Or maybe I won't. I'll be trapped in a mudslide in Ecuador, my lungs filled with dirty ...

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