“I don’t dream.”

“Sure you do.”

The man was thin with subtle, occasional lines of grey in his combed-over, black hair. His face was dark and starting to crack, perhaps from standing outside much of day. He didn’t look at me when he corrected me, but just continued to stare into the street.

“Everybody dreams. You just don’t remember.” He cut his eyes at me for a second. “Why did you tell me this?”

“Because you’re the only other person standing at this corner.”
“I was here first.”

“Can’t we share the corner?”

He nodded and followed a passing cyclo with his eyes. A schoolgirl in an ao dai rolled her bicycle over his toes and he didn’t flinch.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I enjoy the traffic. All the motorcycles with their headlights at dusk and ladies sidesaddle. It’s like a chrome and rubber carousel. I like the neon, too. The neon’s best at dusk.”

“You are strange, my friend.”