The day started with Talus stepping into a very small pile of dog poop as he exited the apartment building. The slight slide of his shoe was the first indication of it and the muddied edge of his shoe sole confirmed it. He paused for a brief moment, removed his sunglasses, turned his foot at an angle, and looked down as if there was some question whether or not it was truly poop. It could not have been anything else. The city pavement was cracked and dusty from weeks without rain. Ms. Potter's vines dangled helplessly over the 3rd floor balcony, and the trees stood listless in the morning sun.
Talus put his hand out to steady himself on the building as he tried to scrap off the poop. This action smeared the poop on the pavement and a little farther down Talus's shoe. He paused again, feeling like a horse digging for a morsel of grass, and looked up into the hazy morning heat.
He wanted to return to his apartment, but knew he would be even later than he already was. "The train waits for no one," he thought. Talus was singularly adept at being a no one. As he continued his thought, "so why didn't it wait for him?" Talus was late, as always, because he was caught-up in practicing his violin. Bach was lately on his mind; he played Concerto #1 one for hours at a time.
Now he was simply late for work. He started toward the station, poop in tow, and Talus smelled waffles as he rounded the corner. Waffles always reminded him of opera. His grandmother would ask him to pick-up waffles on Sunday mornings so they could listen to opera from the local radio station and eat waffles. The morning sun glancing off the edge of the table, syrup glistening, and arias circling around the scraping of forks. Talus would watch his grandmother through his thick hair. Her eyes, already dimmed by time, would close at certain moments as if she was trying to remember something.
He paused for a moment and looked toward the smell, thought of the train and sighed. She was gone, and now he ate cereal on Sundays. The spoon scraped through the milk and silence. He descended into the tunnel. The stale air stirred through his thick hair as he looked down at the faded tile of the steps.
