In Front of the News Rack in the White Hen Pantry at Roosevelt Road and Halsted Avenue

I cry when I go to the bathroom
I can’t stand looking at my wife naked
I hate watching people eat cream cheese on a bagel
I don’t give a damn about going green
I wish I could sleep all day
I have never donated to the Disabled Veterans Association
I do not see why anybody would want to live in Minnesota
I hate the new non-smoking laws in Chicago
I must admit that kid was right; my daughter does have a face like a bat
I write checks each week to my church
I have unpaid parking tickets
I do not plan to pay them
I do not have to pay them
The car I drive everyday is registered to my father-in-law
I don’t think any amount of money sent to Africa is going to change a damn thing
I’ll have a pack of Winston Lights

What she finally saw for the first time only after giving up blinking (in order of importance to the story)

The time in between green yellow red lights when no one was going or yielding or stopping but everyone was anticipating change and change and change. The entire exposure, the opening and closing of light, of the flash for a picture of her smile and her teeth and all the whites and browns of her eyes. When surrounded by people who were resting, who were quiet, who were still, she watched time move, saw each change so that it was never one and then suddenly the other but always growth and becoming. The hidden secret of a scar mostly buried under the shadow of his left eyebrow, a mark on his face she had never before noticed nor seen nor wanted to touch. Him and his importance and his scar and the way he didn’t ever seem to be blinking when he looked at her.