Peace

The deli looks dark. I park anyway. Strange. No other cars are here. Maybe it's closed. Please let that not be true. I've had little food and could now eat my fingers. Barely made it through a job interview on warm tea. The dining area is dark. The doors locked. The best spinach pie will not be mine. Closed Tuesdays you know, says a man standing behind me. He's covered in winter layers from head to toe. He could be ice fishing. Instead he's holding a large flag reading "PEACE." He turns back to the avenue and waves to drivers passing by. Several honk in return. Little facial skin is exposed because the cold is bitter, around five degrees, yet the lines around his eyes suggest a man in his 70s. For four years he's come here for an hour every week to wave for peace. Grab a flag, he says. Across the street are several more flags hoisted in the snowbank. Usually there's another person with him catching the drivers going the other direction. I explain my hunger to him. He agrees that the cold is worse on an empty stomach. Waving takes my mind off it. Eat and come back, he says. Or next week, we'll be here.