Out of the corner of his eye, Marc saw a man sitting on the metal railing. The man sat upright and wore drawstring trousers, but no jacket to protect his chocolate chest from winter’s chill. His black hair a wooly bush on his head.
This strange man turned to face him; Marc turned his head slightly to meet his stare. When their eyes met, Marc noticed gold dust on the other’s eyelashes.
It’s him! The man from my boyhood. Why is he here now?
Marc knew this shaman possessed magic; still, Marc marveled that, after fifty-plus years, the man appeared not to have aged a day. Marc felt old and haggard under the shaman’s gaze.
Marc felt the speed of time shift. Everything slowed down. The blare of the truck’s horn morphed from short, trumpet bursts into one long foghorn blast.
The man on the railing blinked. Nothingness, like a heavy veil, descended over Marc’s mind.