by Luke Otley
He walked past a lot of windows. This one made him stop, for a moment, and stare thoughtfully at his shoes, head lightly cocked. Sounds: smashing, scratching, screaming. The comedic slap of flesh meeting flesh. He imagined peas scurrying for cover, one under an armchair, one coming to a rest against an overturned ash tray. Perhaps a table cloth dragged mournfully tight to the floor to act as an improvised tepee (then- no, no one has table cloths anymore). He touched the window to better feel the image. The window was cool. The curtain inside flinched to the touch, and he moved his fingers hurriedly away. He hesitated only a moment before moving his shoes on up the hill.