Envious

Nonimportant

The man went to the grate, crouched, and opened it. In the hole there was running water.

He scooped the water with his hand and brought it to his head. He let the liquid fall over his hair, all over his face, all over his shoulders.

He did it again.

He did it again.

By the end of the routine, water was dribbling from his whole upper body. His brown shirtless wide torso shone in the strong sunlight. But his head was now a little cooler. That was good.

He set the grate back into its place.

He ran his fingers through his head.

Twice.

Then he pulled his hair back, off his face. He stood up, and looked up. Then he started walking.

He walked in long steps. Long, slow steps. An eternity passed before one of his feet went in front of the other.

And another.

And another.

His chin was up. In fact, he still looked at the sky. His long black wet hair fell down his shoulders, still dribbling. And he walked.

His left hand jerked a little bit from time to time. Usually timed with the steps. But sometimes off-rhythm. And he walked.

His right arm described wide arcs around his body. His left arm kept always close to the body. His shoulders, too, moved wildly, following the movement of the arms, in cadence. And he walked.

His spine was a little bent forward at the hips. His hips sort of undulated, moving rhythmically with each step. As he walked.

He shook his head slowly, from side to side. And up and down.

And up and down.

And up and down.

He looked around, to the people. Wearing shirts, walking around, their heads hot in the scorching sun.

They were all envious, he though. And walked away.