Like a dance hall, this courtyard smells of stale beer and sausage. Dead leaves pick up their skirts docey-doe just so high until they drop, exhausted to the pavement then allemande into gutters scuttering all the way. The sun twirls a dingy crinoline, its ragged hem sticks to my neck. Air tastes like cheap cigars in noisy congratulations wrappers.
Time is an orchestra on a ten minute break. I hold my breath for the pay phone to ring, my doctor calling back with numbers. Sitting forward on the bench I tuck in my shirt run shaky fingers through my hair primp for the moment his words will slip their arms behind my back join hands with mine and take me for a spin. The silence pleads for music, a polka, schottische, square dance.