It took her awhile to turn around. Crescendos are steeping momentum released — chamomile yellow blooming in steaming water. Also because of the likelihood of accident, our protagonist considered “one doesn’t notice walking through fog in fog.” The ear is a tightened drum accepting only the tightened form of a stick upon its heart to click, thud, or whip – the vaporous cannot touch it. Notice how the sky and the smoke, made of the same subtlety meld together above the factories unify, harmonious in the way people having sex hope to be. Accident is within the jurisdiction of chaos, and chaos’ prodigal child is surprise, and so she did, as she did, turn around.
What is the instance of two strangers’ eyes meeting called? A movie she watched once named it. Conflux is a good enough word. It’s the place where two rivers, their surging waters and necessary banks, curve into the other's. Focus is when a prism does the same with light, but what is it called when two hearts do it with eyes? A conflux implies both bodies decide to fill the space between them with words, to bring the bodies together afterwards if the words are agreeable, to walk beside each other and find new destinations or share previous routine ones then, and we don’t know if they will yet. All we know now is that their eyes, respectively fixed to heads and bodies decided a prior to attend adjacent places, one for a meeting, the other for a class, met.
We weren’t watching when they were parallel. We can’t say for certain who strayed from their trajectory or if shoulders were butted against. Neither have phones in their hands and one, listening to music, is known to look down when she walks. The other, a recently promoted to head of marketing looks up filling the city’s space with mock-up advertisements in its empty places.
We think it’s interesting because it’s where a story begins — the introduction of a character. And more interesting is the introduction of two. Didn’t history begin like that — time and space — the emergence of two new characters?