The streets are empty at seven at night when I leave the office. Rain is dripping off the Christmas lights that dangle above the pub, some of the lights burned out. The season is over. You can see it everywhere, Christmas Trees at the corner, dead and droopy next to the rubbish. The rain comes in sideways as the wind blows fierce.
The Mannequin in the men’s shirt shop window whose face and limbs were painted red for the holidays looked so festive in December, now it looks like a demented alien.
The pub isn’t brimming, it’s mostly empty, space heaters have been placed outside, but they outnumber the patrons.
It’s quiet on the streets, people coming back and forth, but not with parcels of presents, but briefcases with papers, bills to pay.
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