Special spots.

Some places bear the power to remodel us. Take this bench on saint Matthew’s parc. Look at it sitting near the entrance. A simple bench, a bit worn out, under the watch of a couple of great birch trees. A man approaches. He bought himself some snacks in one of the nearby supermarkets and is walking towards said bench to spend his lunchtime break. He is in his mid thirties, quite tall although not massively so, wearing a colorful shirt with summery patterns, possibly hawaian of some sort. He just sat down on the bench. Is it the birches shadow? The shirt immediately seems a lot dimmer, and darkens by the second. Soon enough the patterns have melted together in patches of browns and khaki greens. The man’s charming five-o'clock shadow has overgrown into a scruffy bush. The lucozade in his hand now strangely resembles a can of cheap beer and his good-for-you sandwich has turned into unidentified bits of food wrapped into many times crumpled foil. A minute ago, he seemed cheered up by the beautiful day. Now there’s a strange look on his face. Of indifference or resignation, I wouldn’t really know.

Rahni’s car is also one of those uncanny places. The other day I was sitting on the right hand side back seat and as I breathed in, the car’s smell seemed familiar. I still haven’t put my finger on it but as soon as it reached me the car started to slip around me. It first grew larger then in a rubbery motion extended slowly to my right and closed in on my left so I ended up sat down on the left hand side. Meanwhile the seat belt curled around me in a comforting embrace to set up smoothly the opposite way and make me securely fastened in my new position. Somewhere along that dance a white fluffy soft toy velcroed itself onto the belt and nestled cuddly against my neck so the belt hard edge wouldn’t scratch it. I started knocking my feet against one another, they wouldn’t touch the floor anymore.