Conversation · Cafeteria Window

"Can you let me slide by so I can grab the thing?"

"I don't know about that..." The tattooed man yawns and settles more comfortably on the bench. "I'm comfortable here... don't think any sliding would really help right now."

"Sorry, Fucko! Looks like you're gonna have to go bush-diving. Good fucking luck with that -- the hawthorn's got a bitch of a bite!"

"Titus, can you hand the key to me please?"

"I'm not your janitor, cop." He glances at the window. "I don't even know what you're talking about. There's nothing there."

"If he says it's there, it's there." The lieutenant takes his glasses off to clean them -- then puts them back on.

Nothing, as always. By now you're almost certain there may be a sparrow's nest on one of the branches.

Yes. The nest of a common house sparrow. Passer domesticus.

Keep at it. There must be a reason you've looked out this window so many times.

Nothing, as before. Just black branches.

"What's this weirdo cop doing now, huh? Window-shopping?"

"I think he's trying to find dirt on us, in our box. It's what they do, Shanks. Did you know policemen are sometimes called pigs?"

"Wow, no. I hadn't heard that."

"Yeah -- because they like to sniff around in dirt." The tattooed man gives you a look.

He's just trying to sound clever. He has no idea what you're looking for -- nor do you, yourself.

Nothing. Just black tangles like the hair of an old woman. Motionless. The wind in the yard doesn't reach the hawthorn, nor does the light come in from this window.

[Revert your gaze.]

Look out the window.

Nothing. Even though you know you should see it -- you don't. Just branches like black tangles of hair. Motionless. The wind in the yard doesn't reach the hawthorn. Maybe come back later and you can try again?

It wasn't time yet. You have to know of the girl... Return when you know more.

Squint.

There's a little slide panel up there, to let some air in. No need to open it in spring. It's still too cold outside.

You're not so sure about that. Somehow you just know -- there's something out there, behind the glass.

One can't see into the Union box from the yard outside -- that hawthorn is too thick.

Behind the dockworkers: a ceiling height window. The hawthorn branches scrape the glass like bony fingers.

The men are talking, but you swear you hear those black limbs tap on the window as the wind blows outside.

You see two, maybe three bushes, grown into a single thicket -- over a period of circa 50 years. It takes time for a hedge like that to form.