From the wayside came a voice like a mosquito in February. He was less startled by the abrupt noise than he was by the association it instantly connected. Like a neglected garage door rising for the first time in years, light shone on the dust and cobwebs of old things long ago stored and since forgotten.
Through the tiny paths made of space unused he searched frantically but without wishing to disturb much of what lay around. His eyes darted in directions nauseatingly quick in search, and without disturbing a spider or mouse he found what he sought.
“Yusuf,” He replied, yet the noise and bustle of the street washed the words away before they could reach.
Around them the streets were coloured with chalk and the air more so by the sounds of Saxophones, drums, guitars, and singing. The traffic of bodies flowed in no particular direction by street performers of all varieties, and to encounter a familiar face amongst this all felt like odds of the most diminutive kind.
“Yusuf!” He repeated, with the liveliness that lacked the first go around.
The two men embraced and spent the remainder of the day together. When the night came, they celebrated in raised glasses and old stories that spoke of the times they shared in youth. They laughed at the beards they’d grown and the wrinkles reaching at the corners of their eyes. When the hours piled too high and the drinks likewise, goodnight was bid to one another and they walked away from this quick intersection of their lives.
When the sun crested the horizon of the morning to follow, both men would carry on forward on bikes freshly dusted and ridden a short while, until the places and faces to come would bury them back in to storage and pull the door closed once again.