Portrait in orange a couple of days ago

Workmen in bright orange shirts in my doorway eating food. They have iced coffees.

They have to keep moving out of the way of all the other passers-by. It’s cold.

An older couple move past swinging motorbike helmets, him watching her closely to see where she wants to go. They go on to the bakery and the workmen in orange crowd against my door again to let them pass. The food they have is hot and in paper bags; about eight bags each. I can see the steam. They have packs of smokes and huge boots, muddied. I can hear them scraping about out there.

‘I’m never going to get it.’

‘That’s what I reckon.’

‘So hungry.’

They go back and forth to the bin. One of turns and gazes in at the books. They keep eating. They stop chewing only when a truck passes, and then they gaze at it until it’s gone. Then they start eating again.

‘I don’t know, man. Just don’t know.’

‘Na. Me too. Where you going?’

‘Bog.’

‘K. See you at the car.’

One crosses the road slowly, still eating. When I look up again, they are both gone, and the orange landscape is now grey.

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