anxiety
The gold paint was peeling. Badly. Coming loose from the runner-board along the wall in large chunks and sections. On first glance, even on second and third, the place looked so stunning, so eccentrically artistic – or was it artistically eccentric? – but then she saw the peeling paint, and now it was all she could see. Just like life, she thought. And she willed herself to look away. There was a car outside – just hovering there, not parking, but not not parking, pulled up in front of the building halfway in the marks and halfway still in the street, as if that would make a difference, as if pulling at least somewhat into the designated area made him less of an asshole to all the cars that had to drive around him. She stared at him a while; wondered what he was doing. He was just staring straight ahead, hovering, in that halfway place of non-committal passive aggression. Just like life. She looked away from him, too.
