He shuts his eyes and breathes out, his back rests languorously on the frame of the faded maroon bus-stop. The peeling red paint feels toxic against his spine.
His eyes flash as a car passes by, rubber on tarmac and hot air through pistons. The feathery grey mist of his cigarette is stolen by the wake of the car. He looks down, his weight propped on one leg, heron like, gazing harshly. He flicks the ash from the butt of his cigarette; pixels of black and white cascade off it.
A drop of sweat rolls from his matted sideburns, glistening in the waning sunlight.
He raises his right arm up to his lips, tokes softly and flings the filter hard on the ground. After its second bounce his bent leg unbends and grinds heel-first onto it. He feels the gravel on the rubber of his worn soles, and the last of the brown leaves spreads in an arc on the gritty pavement like spices on meat.
Again, his chest relaxes and smoke leaves his lips as his foot leans on the frame of the faded maroon bus-stop once more. Two cars, one red, one white pass nearby like dreams upon waking. He licks his lips.
He was not there though. His mind was in the clouds.