Mon Oct 21 2024

It’s morning again. Up too early like always. No one to talk to but the desk lady downstairs when I take the dogs. A man walked past me, dressed entirely in black. Head covered, face covered, and with gloves. I think brother-man had shorts though. Always shorts in Hawaiʻi. Well, I don’t know if I thought he was menacing or homeless; something about him just didn’t seem approachable. He didn’t need to be.

When he passed by he smelled of midrange perfume. Not sweet or delicate or anything of note, really. If anything, it stunk up the place. But the juxtaposition of that air of supermarket parfum dʻhommes in such a setting: 4:45 AM on a dark Honolulu street steps aways from a man that sleeps under a tarp with his garbage—Something about it was striking.

Maybe it was me, the hoity-toity condo cuck in sweat shorts and socksʻn slides holding a bag of shit.