On The Corner of Boylston & Tremont
We’re underneath a damp green streetsign on a foggy day in January. We are standing on the inside of a cloud. Rain wobbles on the verge of condensing out of the air, gets us wet by pinpricks. We can’t see the tops of the buildings. The bigger ones dissolve upwards, their 23rd floor windows continuing on into infinity. Sunset isn’t for another half hour, but the streetlamps are already on and bright white and making little halos in the fine mist. We consider opening the umbrellas we have packed collapsed in handbags or stuffed into coat pockets, but the mist renders them ridiculous. We soften in the air like molding biscuits.
At the corner next to the yawning brass subway doors is a line of newspaper boxes. There’s a damp front page sticking to the curb. On the side of the orange one in the center some fresh graffiti is running like eyeliner.