Walking at the precise speed of menace

We were all just waiting for the bus, of no great stature or intent. He came prowling down the footpath, walking at the precise speed of menace and power. Black shoes and trousers, dark brown leather jacket and impenetrable sunglasses. Tanned face and pony-tail, probably taut muscles beneath his impeccable attire. He put the cigarette to his mouth with his fingers making a crooked V across his lip, and paused, as if the whole world depended on his inhaling. He stalked through the bus mortals, studiously ignoring our existence, not even props on his stage. The bus arrived and I clambered on board, watching him appreciate his reflection in the window. As the 438 pulled away, I caught a glimpse of him turn sharply and shout. Despite his glory, he’d missed the bus.

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