Januariad

Cod comes down the hill trailing a small granny trolly. His lanky frame is bent almost double to reach the handle, and twisted so that he’s half-turned towards his luggage, arm extended straight from the shoulder. This awkward shape gives an awkward gait. Cod’s gracelessness imbues his entire form. It seems to lend awkwardness to the area around him, rendering the roughly-joined concrete path awkward, the kerbs awkward, the overhanging trees similarly awkward.

He wears grey, formless tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt too light for the weather. His runners are no longer of identifiable profile, colour or brand. He is ageless, or else terribly aged. His head hangs loosely at the neck, an expression of fierce concentration on his gurning features. The creased skin around his eyes is in tight, frozen folds. He notices nothing of the day, the light, the mildness of everything. He glares downwards, scanning. The concrete waits to trip him up.