I only see him for a second. A split one. A glance through the right side of my windshield as my car hugs the roundabout and steadies into a straight line.
He walks two dogs. His hair is gray. His coat is unzipped and his head is uncovered. The wind gusts and the leaves skitter under his feet and one of the dogs trots just ahead, nose raised to the breeze. He looks up.
My ship passes.
Maybe his kids are both in college. Maybe he lost one in infancy. Maybe his wife passed years ago. Maybe she's making him lunch. Maybe he refuses to retire. Maybe he hates his job. Maybe he's writing a book. Maybe he's not.
Maybe those dogs are all he has.
I look in my rear view mirror. Leaves kick up behind me, yellow and golden brown. They must fall to the pavement but I don't see it happen and I'll never know for sure. She sings to herself in the backseat.