On a morning in June, I left the house before I had decided where I was going. The street was still holding the night's rain, and the sycamore leaves had collected it in their shallow cups. I walked to the corner and stood there until the bus came.
A man across the road was watering a row of pots outside his shop. He moved from one to the next with the same small patience, even after the pavement had already gone dark. I wondered how many mornings I had passed him without seeing the water.
I went on with the day. Nothing had been settled at the corner, but I carried the pause with me, a little space between one thing and the next.