He Talks to Ghosts

Just before dinnertime, I took a walk across the Guilford Street Bridge. Winds drove themselves between buildings, bringing with them smells of the sea, smells of food cooking, a million dinners. There, in the middle of the street, was a man introducing himself to no one. But it was not no one. There were many of them. But there were not many of them. No one else was there.

“Yo!”, he said, and assumed the posture of a man introducing himself. He turned, as if in conversation with a group, and spoke inaudibly. He waited for something less audible, and laughed as though in response to a joke. He pitched his head behind him at an angle, as toward a voice calling him from behind, but there was only the wind, so far as I could see.