Survivor absent from his post this afternoon, no-where to be seen. As usual his younger wife sat on the ground, passing some of the clothes through her fingers while half listening to a dark woman leaning against the back fence rattling. Easy to discern the tell-tale signs left behind. The fold-up chair down on the trolley carried a piece of cardboard over the ridge that rose above the seat-hollow. Stretched out there in his usual way, legs up over the rail, the Survivor would have been discomforted down on the tail-bone. All made good with the roughly torn cardboard piece. Sweet.
On the bend the usually seated sister was up on her feet behind her wares, occupied with a couple of Banglas who were keeping her waiting. No eyes this afternoon for passersby. Where could the woman have found that length of peak on a camouflage hat? Attached ear-flaps. The peak must have stretched one foot at a minimum. This on a gal five foot zero in her heels.
In order to see anything at all it needs to be turned to one side, at an awkward, drunken angle. Presenting a little difficulty for the exchange. Such good ivory in this hawker's case. Most of them here would need to eschew any kind of meat.
The sun had not been kept out from the beginning with the same vigilance; nor the same as the dental hygiene. No doubt how pretty this one would have been in her youth, even ten years ago. Unlikely she would be married. Unlikelihoods in all directions.
Bike-man was disconsolate, sitting in the gutter beside his wares (more than half of them seat-less). On a white plastic lid of some kind. Bare-headed this afternoon with the sun gone down; over-sized plastic clogs easier on the corns.
The ragged, bloodied ears have been unmentioned to date. Difficult to guess the reason. Scissoring the sprouts had been the initial thought.
Often congealed blood was evident, particularly around the ear drum, the left more often (more easily reached with the right). Once or twice before he had also worn a little wad in that ear—something like a bird carrying in its beak.
Scalp newly shorn, a little toilet brush fringe left and possibly even coloured recently. Jet black, couple of inches in a tight band high on his forehead? How often would Bike-man bring in front of a mirror?
A tall Indian-Malay man at a guess, near Survivor and on the same side, gets a fortnightly hair-cut that easily wins the crown at the Thieves pageant. The man in his late forties, mainly in athletic gear, large stones and bracelets. Turned entirely white some years ago. His barber gives him razored terraces along both sides about two centimetres in width. Newly done even a cool cat town denizen needs to stop and stare at the man.
All preconceptions fall away turning the corner at the Thieves Market.
A couple youngsters on the side opposite Survivor, in shirts, trousers and shoes possibly turn a dollar with their trade in rings and jewels. (Inherited from their fathers?) Difficult to see anyone else here making money.
Sun-spots on the scalp either side of Bike’s fringe. A string of old keys had the man a trifle baffled this afternoon.
Trade slow. In the form of scaredy-cat schoolboys from an age past, the once or twice Bike-man raises his eyes he does so without lifting his chin.
Earlier on the turning toward Jalan Besar the ice-cream trishaw sold a couple of items, one to a woman who had come down from the neighbouring HDB.
Beside the Bike his own trishaw parked this afternoon, the carriage filled with spare wheels, tyres and tubes. A hard push mounted so high. Bike-man does not ride pushing that load.
Another trishaw on Jalan Besar Corner had lost one of its red plastic chairs. Chap must have heard it go. A young Malay lad passing with his girl-friend stopped to retrieve it while the man waited in his saddle.
— Thank you, Arh.
(Classic Sing' construction and rhythm for those of you who know the form.)
This time no second chances. Setting off for his fellows, the chap pushed wearing the furniture as a hat.
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