Mulled Wine


Mulled Wine

And he suddenly looked up and noticed he was walking along. He could not specifically recall how long he had been walking along. He was walking through a familiar kind of city. He did not have anyway in particular to go. He continued walking along.

He meandered through the more affluent shopping areas, occasionally stopping to look at a pair of jeans or a vintage t-shirt.
He sought out a park.
He walked next to a river.
He walked across an old bridge.
He bought a mozzarella, basil and tomato sandwich and ate it sitting by the window.
He did a sudoku.
He watched people ice skating.
He stopped to watch the police questioning someone.
He perused a German market.
He stopped to try and understand the pun on a bus shelter advertisement.
He considered buying a book.
He bought a bottle of sparkling water and sat drank it sitting by the window.
He looked through the windows of a series of boutique art galleries.
He pretended to wait for a bus.
He read the newspapers by the entrance of a supermarket.
He considered buying someone a gift.
He stood in the entrances to popular tourist attractions and read leaflets advertising other tourist attractions.
He found a point high up from which to look out at the city.
He bought a can of coke.
He continued to walk along.

It was only after a couple of days or so that he noticed for the first time that everyone else appeared to be doing exactly the same thing. Every day he spotted the same people in the same clothes, circling and circling. Gloves and hats.

It was a couple of days after that when the first started to stumble and fall. Crumpling into the pavement. They just lay there, glazed over, cold. The others continued to step over or round them, admiring a limited edition print in the window of a graphic design shop or thinking about buying a cup of mulled wine.


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