750words, stream of consciousness, 8:30am

On an otherwise solitary Sunday afternoon, he had several times to stop and found himself at one point contemplating the passing-by of a single person. Solitude, he thought, frustrated and casting his gaze at the ground, can never be solitude in such a crush of humanity.

The morning sunlight, lighter and narrower than most types of sunlight, strained to illuminate the parking lot, packed with cars, early-bird churchgoers out and about, shopping, having orange juice and toast around a circular table. He could hear the clatter of knives and forks. The sky was not-yet blue, having pulled into itself in the predawn meditative silence (that, he thought, true solitude) many skies worth of filmy mist. He could see mist lingering some places, tufted on distant hillsides, scooting along in the path of a woman who must have been no more than twenty, already formed a cicatrix of pain in her shoulders, so shy was she of meeting others' gaze. Why, then, out on a busy Sunday? The agony of the spaced out moments where she would have to adjust her pace or trajectory in order not to collide with another pedestrian, it was palpable. He watched her only for the time it took for him to unlock his car door, toss his ragged sacklike pack inside, fumble in his pockets for a lighter he had already realized would not be there, and then a further moment, perhaps for the contemplation of all his previous mistakes.

In that time he knew she imagined herself starkly visible and watched, though in truth she would have been surprised, pleased, even, that only he saw her, and not only that, but in so personal a way. He flinched realizing too that she would be embarrassed at having been found out. The desire now to talk to her was a force outside himself. But what would he say? The girl no more relied on his encouragement than she relied on there being no one at the grocery store. To do so would be folly, building houses on top of rapidly decaying wood.

A long time ago he would not even have seen her. Green-clad small deity of the forest, a breathlessly flowering dandelion, a bit of wind tossing her leaf-like from place to place. Small as a mote of light in heavy-laden evening. Hands, fingers, minute agile legs and feet, almost seen in a cloud of gnats. He would look for her, surely, he was not so cotton-headed as to walk into such a forest and not be instantly aware of things.

Closing the door. Pierced by a ray of morning light, calm enough to have found him there, turning and turning the ring of his keys, watching the steady stream of people entering and leaving the store. In a moment all the truth of it, dense as the heat that had gathered in the dusty air, would begin to smother him. He rolled the windows down. People passed his car, opened doors, chattered, passed bags to each other and wheeled carts all about. Not hearing them, he suddenly felt the press of solitude. The knowledge that even were he to speak to her, the words that would mean anything at all would have to be formed from first clumsy attempts then painful awkward reaching-out touching words, finding them useless and tossing them aside. He imagined the whole host of things he might say to her, compared it to the small section of words that she would hear. Barriers, gates, filters, like a meticulously-kept home aquarium, he felt like a complacent domesticated creature, playing its part and hoping for a reward. The context in which they would have to meet - store, bar, the beach, a gathering of like-minded individuals - would so crowd them as to suffocate any real speech. Honestly barren. Unintentionally superfluous and unable to adjust trajectory.

When he came to find out he had been sitting in his car for ten minutes without moving, barely breathing, he felt dehydrated and claustrophobic, suddenly husked out and empty of vitality. He switched the music on, something familiar to him and calming. He rolled down the windows, cracked open the soda he had bought himself, and continued to sit. Only for five more minutes.

The can was cool and damp against his hand when she walked by again carrying a small bag. She paused for a moment, listening, then approached his window where he sat, eyes closed, unaware of her.

"I like that band a lot," she said, smiling in the most graceful way, totally unrehearsed, her cheeks immediately coloring with embarrassment. It was as if she was uncertain of his being human, of having the same fears and awkward movements as she, but she was still attempting communication. Bravery in the face of the unknown. He turned the music down and smiled back at her.