7:40 a.m., Amyand Park Road, walking alongside the perimeter of St. Margarets Station. Ahead of me, a drab suited office type, a black flecked, charcoal grey rucksack suspended halfway down his back, but looking as if it is an extension of him, not an addendum, weighing him down like a cooled lump of magma, a rocky outcrop. I draw closer, passing through the exotic haze emanating from him, trying to clock his profile as I draw level - it's drooping, baggy, lugubrious, not sharp, hipster or cool. I see it then, pincered between thumb and forefinger,tucked back into the cup of his closed palm, concealed and vaguely shifty, not carefree but sheltering from the wind - a 3 cm. reefer.
Must be all the pressure.
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