A man with calloused hands darkened by time and labor pulls apart a mango with thick fingers. Juice falls onto a weathered tin plate that sits atop his lap.
The front door of an office building is wrapped in shiny striped wrapping paper, as though what's inside is a gift.
Flyers for shows where we could dance together peel away from the street pole. We'll go if I can stand being 15 years older than the girls grinding in crop tops.
A poster showing a portly Seth Rogen hangs beside one featuring a forever-thin Kate Moss.
A man wearing too many coats argues with himself or someone none of us can see. He pounds his fists against a truck spray painted with the word Reyes, the name of the artist whose work lives forever on the arm of my lover.