The Italian aroma of linguini shrimp spirals up my nose. I stare at Tony. He eyes back. "Are you free Toos-day?" he says with a slight Italian accent. I stroke the short bristles of my beard. It is the same thing every week. "Are you free Monday or Wens-day? How bout Friday?..." A little repetitive, but it's a job. One must keep up with their work.
Outside the macaroni shop, checkered taxis lurch like snails as they weave through the crowded streets of Little Italy. But they are lurching, their weak engines continue to hum- time continues to flow like a river of eternity.
I am lost in this wild river of time. I always make an effort to cling onto some jagged rock, but the slipperyness always prevails, and I am thrown and sucked back into the water...
The roots of a tree can never be branched and anchored solidly into the soil of a river's unrich bed. They will never form a deep and complex network of vibrous branches anchoring into the ground, holding fast as to not be pulled by some heavy current. It must reach land. I must reach land.
But I am drowning in this river.
..............
"Of course I'm free Tuesday."
