There’s a man in a lavender suit with a featureless face standing on the corner. He’s flipping a silver coin that glints with a white flash every time it peaks just before the fall back to his gloved hand. He asks nothing, says nothing, just keeps the coin spinning, spinning, spinning again. I can tell that he’s waiting for me to come up and ask what he’s doing, ask how to play, ask what bets to place and what I’ll get if I win. I’ve seen him before. I know his kind all too well. I’m not playing his game.