backforthmenu Five Seconds. There are two Hispanic girls who can’t be more than 14, crossing Western at Pacific Coast Highway. They’re in no-fade jeans with huge cuffs, black and white clunker shoes, gingham tops and short, short bangs. They are chewing bubblegum and hugging books to their chests. They are confident and alone against the tide of humming, thumping and coughing cars. No one else exists. A yellow bus crammed with adolescent boys makes a turn on the yellow light onto southbound Western. One of them, only one, eyes peaking over the back of a green seat, stares at the girls, his neck turning with the bus. His jaw dropping slightly. When he turns back around, his eyes catch mine. He realizes I noticed him watch the confident, now lost, girls. Boy heads south, girls east, me north. 3/23/00