2/25/18, the buildings weren't tall.

The buildings weren’t tall. He was fumbling a bit with his watch and then he was walking again, even faster, clutching the bag to his chest and staring nervously out into the rain. The brick was pale, a gray-red that he checked constantly, holding his hand up to shield his eyes. He shivered.

His boots echoed on the ground as he walked, one, two, and again, quickening as through frightened each by the other with every stride. He was scuttling now, like a little beetle burdened by some small meal he’d found, checking the rain all the while with his hands, stopping here at a light, there at the sound of a car, to glance at his watch. For a moment his hat slipped, the shadow lapsing to show a curved mustache. A tooth flashed as he snarled slightly at the storm and yanked it back. He trudged ahead.

A red car veered around a corner behind him and he swung the whole length of his self around, coat swinging wildly in the wind, bag dissolved seamlessly into it, to lean forward and stare intently at its driver until he was satisfied. Then he turned and started again, leaving the red car parked at a light, his neck bent slightly against the rain.

When he reached 123 Bleecker he stopped, his entire body sighing unto itself. He glanced left and right and then stepped quickly inside a white door, fumbling with the lock. Inside he paused just for an instant, as though listening for something, took the bag from his coat, and then ran child-like up red-carpeted stairs that struck wooden as he hit them.