She’s meeting a friend for a walk through the museum of fine arts and lunch –errands to run on the way, a bill to pay, she passes the man who is always sitting with his canvas, painting on the corner of a quiet street, fourteen degrees this morning, and he’s there on his stool, dabbing in the bricks of a nondescript apartment building, recycling bins out back, sagging fence in front. His prayer. She takes the train in, and it’s different because although it is the route to work, she is not going to work, not until later. The meeting with the friend makes her ride entirely unlike every other day of the week.

*This piece may not be archived, reproduced or distributed further without the author’s express permission.