Standing on a corner

I often wonder at the lives of strangers, how they interact with the world, what they see when they look at the everyday, the ordinary. Does it have the same tinge of the surreal, I ask. Does the fog speak of mysteries, or is it simply water suspended in the air, too heavy for humidity, too light for rain? Does an ancient locked door in an otherwise modern district hold a door to the færie realm, or is it just a gate to someone's older house?

Then I find magic in the ordinary, in a conversation captured in snatches, as i did the other day, in the city, at a corner: a man, talking to his son, or an uncle and nephew, perhaps; these days, they must know each other somehow. He was balanced on his toes, looking like he might sit cross-legged in midair at any moment, but that he chose, for appearances' sake, to remain earthbound.

« You need to watch out in the evenings, » he said, « when the winds are high—the edges aren't so clear then. I've watched people caught in a sudden breeze, thinking it was nothing, get hurled elsewhere! » He gestured wildly, somehow not quite losing his balance, even as his arms whirled about his head. « Here and there get confused, and soon enough those poor souls are stuck beyond, waiting for that same foolish breeze to carry them back.

« If evenings weren't enough, look out in the dark of the moon, since that's when the wights and lots of other apparitions walk. » Again, he described frightening shapes with those wild hands—but his feet never shifted. He looked near falling over, and yet there he sat.

« That's all foolish, » the boy said, sounding about ten. « There's no such things as færie doors or magic winds—and ghosts are just in stories for children! » He stood there, belligerent at being taken for a fool, being fed this nonsense for the weak-minded. His older companion looked bemused. « You must have seen a good deal of the world, then, » he said sagely, « to know all there is about what is and is not real. » He knew I was listening, because suddenly he winked at me. « All it takes is one counterexample, » he continued, « to prove a statement, false. » He smiled then, a warm, sunny smile. « So don't be so grim and serious. Just because you might be swept away doesn't mean you always will be. » The boy stomped his foot. « Now you're just playing with me! » At this, the man laughed, a great booming sound. « What's the harm in play? Growing up means I can't still play? » The boy opened and closed his mouth, looking sullen. « Now go off and play, » he continued, « since I'm obviously too old to play too. » Again, the booming laugh, as the boy looked even more dour—but only for a moment, because then he ran off, all smiles and yells and laughter.

The man looked at me and smiled knowingly. He said nothing, but knew that I had listened in on their exchange, the man and boy. He stood now, his short black coat whispering in a suddenly rising faint breeze, which stirred my hair as it passed. He took a small black leather-bound volume from his pocket, and flipped it open with a practised motion, reading from the contents for a moment. Finished, he tucked it away, then turned, gave me a wave farewell, and walked around the corner.

It always seemed to me that he disappeared around the corner a bit too readily, too completely. It may have been my imagination, but it seemed like the wind rose a little more, and I could hear music.