Kiosk
There is a kiosk on the corner of our street. Sometimes I go there to get Rana’s newspaper and a packet of cigarettes for myself. The kiosk is owned by a skinny old man — his green eyes light up when we meet — he’s very friendly. Usually we have a bit of chat What’s been happening?
that sort of thing.
This morning I go to the kiosk for the first time this week. As I look through the window, the old man is standing on his chair. I can only see his legs. He is probably checking or counting his stock. Anyway he doesn’t see me.
So I wait.
A second later, the legs turn around and I hear Hello!
Hello! Are you well?
I answer.
Very slowly he gets down from his chair. First he puts a foot to the floor and then one, two, three seconds later he brings the other foot down. I’m taking some exercise
he explains after a short pause and we laugh. He puts his hand to his mouth and coughs: Excuse me — the road dust!
He squawks like a crow.
The air is very bad
I sympathise. Can I have a packet of
Winston
please?
There you go
he passes me my cigarettes but he looks at me over his glasses, as if for the first time: Aren’t you cold?
he asks.
I look down at myself — my t–shirt, my shorts and sandals — This is the month of October but the weather is very mild and the kiosk is not far from our home. I’m taking a little exercise,
I say to him, picking up my cigarettes.
It’s a sporting life,
he says Goodbye!
See you later!