I stand in my usual spot on the pedestrian sloped inlet at the corner of This Ave. and That St., the tips of my worn shoes hanging just over the edge of the low curb. This square foot of real estate is the only spot where my feet can lie flat on the uneven concrete. My large wood-handled STOP sign rests comfortably in my hands behind my back, and my neon yellow vest creates the impression of a blue-jean-clad highlighter capped in Padres brown.
The sun is already high at this time of morning, and my Padres sweatshirt, still warm with body heat, lies clumped in the passenger seat of my car. The cool morning air has already begun to grow heavier, warmer, and I know without looking at a forecast that today will be sunny and bright, as it always is on the San Diego coast.
I twirl the sign absently, a habit I picked up somewhere along the way, and I watch the horizon—for school children, of course. That’s what I get paid for. But also for him. And for her. Soon they will arrive separately, together.
His arrival always precedes hers. It is never the other way around, even on mornings when they are behind schedule. While I watch for them, I cross familiar faces back and forth. “Hey, nice to see you,” “Beautiful morning,” and later, “See you this afternoon,” “Take it easy,” or “Go Padres!” as parents head to work.
Time, for me, ambles by in the routines of others. Here come the early birds and enthusiastic kindergarteners, the teaching assistants who wait until the last possible moment before the start of a shift before leaving their cars, the mid-morning regulars along with the heavier rush of cars, and here, the runners—the same ones who, every morning, dash in just before the bell, and sometimes after. If it wasn’t for routine, I’d never know what time it is.
Then the 2-minute bell chimes loudly, followed by the three whistle blasts telling students to line up and letting me know that my shift is almost at an end. I think, Oh no! I’m going to miss them today.
But I don’t. Because around the corner comes the sturdy frame of the man in the light blue fishing hat. He walks with his familiar stiff gait, hands behind his back the way I’m doing now, wearing the expression of a man lost to thought. His stride might appear casual if it were just a little slower and if I didn’t already know of the schedule he aimed to keep. I twirl my sign.
The light changes and we walk across the street. He lifts his hand in polite greeting, but he barely knows I’m there. This is expected. It is our role to play.
I return to my little square of sidewalk, and he stops on his own. He is one car length behind me, standing, staring at the same horizon that I am, waiting for—
There she is. First her wide brimmed hat crests the hill, blond mop of hair alight in the sun. She rises further into view and I see that, as always, she wears yellow-accented long-sleeved activewear. Today, the primary color is gray, though sometimes it’s black. The cotton gloves she wears are, as always, stark white.
She’s already seen him. I know this part well. I don’t even have to look at him to know that his eyes are now a perfect reflection of hers—alight and enthusiastic. She waits at the light as he adjusts his posture ever so slightly and his hands change positions, now clasped in front.
I escort her across the road. Her stride is hampered by the extreme bow-shape of her right leg, which adds rhythm to her walk. On those occasions when she has greeted me, I notice the slur in her words. I suspect that she hasn’t always walked or spoken in this manner, but that isn’t for me to know.
We reach the other side of the street—the one with my spot and her suitor. And now we are at my favorite moment of the morning. This is what I’ve been waiting for. He raises both of his bare hands above his head and a little forward, one half of a human tunnel. She raises her gloved hands. They press together, interlocking fingers, touching only hand to glove. It is their hug—the only one they can share: his hands, her gloves, their moment.
They say nothing during their embrace, allowing their eyes to communicate their love. Right now, this is their own world, their own brief period when they become the most significant people in the universe, and I am the lucky guy who gets to witness it.
They turn.
They walk away, down the hill, together, hand in gloved hand, speaking their joy without words.
I don’t know anything about them. I wonder sometimes why they meet this way—why from two directions, why silently, why at this corner. I have some suspicions, some possible answers, but I don’t want to know. Knowing would break the spell.
The final school bell alerts me that my shift is over. I stroll down the hill to my car, maybe fifty yards behind them. They still hold hands and we each move on with our day.
Author’s Note
This little moment began as a sensory‑detail exercise, but it’s a true slice of my morning ritual—one that made me smile, and I wanted to share it.