At a crosswalk on Santa Monica Boulevard, a thin, hip, stiff man in his seventies. Beverly Hills. Sunglasses. Three-hundred-dollar jeans. Stands next to me, a blank traveler from somewhere. We wait. Silent. The signal doesn't flicker. Five minutes + five minutes. Cars snail past. Busted, I say. Indignant he asks, in Beverly Hills? First sign of the apocalypse, I add. He does not smile, does not stir. The light is perfect. So perfect. Sharpening all. Asphalt. Glass. Faces. People without homes lying about nearby. A shameless city paused under a bright lid. Something already broken. No one names it.
Paweł Grajnert is a writer, filmmaker and visual artist working in Poland and the US. www.linkedin.com/in/pkgrajnert