Why are you standing at the foot of the lamppost, outside the park, in black pin striped three piece suit, yet you are a teenage boy? It is winter. Bitter frost hangs the night. You trail thin puffs of breath. What are you waiting on? Your hair is lacquered smooth with gel and glistens under the wake of yellow light. You stand up-right in sentry. Your face, pale smooth white skin, bright amber iris's rimming jet black pupils, chiselled jaw line, and straight warm red lips.
You hold a black Oak stick with a silver regal brass knob, by your right hand; tap it, once, twice, three times, upon the pavement. You lift your head to the sky, which is cloudless and perfect jet black, stars illuminating, like frost and white stones sugared upon the pavement, glittering under lamplight. You straighten your lapels with your left hand, and then lift your left arm, toward your face to read the time. What is waiting for you?
Lamp light trembles in threat of going out, you look up, searching then look forward again, unconcerned. The street is silent. You must be very cold. Yet there is no impatience in your manner. You seem, precise. Prepared. Deliberate. Clandestine. Suddenly, like the black bird startled, you snap your head to the right, look off into the darkness; some sound? A call? It is impossible to know. You take three strides outside the perimeter of the lamp glow, untraceable and sealed, by the pitch dark of midnight.