It doesn’t take much to pull me up and out of myself: yellow flash and with it I am in the world again, world in which two men, maybe 55, 60, walk down Fulton in front of me, left’s arm slung over right’s shoulder, right’s arm across left’s back. They wear matching uniforms: yellow rain jackets over blue jumpsuits, blue ball caps. What do they do? I wonder, though I know it matters not what they do, but that they do, with each other. Each in his free hand holds a brown paper bag, stuffed, scrunched at the top, and I imagine them arriving wherever they arrive and with what’s left of their lunch break laughing, laughing the way they laugh now: bellies out, heads back, rapture laughs, hands inside bags. Pastrami for the left, I guess, turkey club for the right-hand man, potato chips and Cokes for both. They’ll chew and slurp and full-mouth laugh, and—“Man, you kill me,” left says. Right hits his leg with his bag, drapes and shakes his head: “I’m dead,” he says, then holds up his bagged hand: “Stop,” he begs. He tries to catch his breath, and though I know it hurts somewhere deep beneath the ribs, a pummeling like this, what left means, I think, is, “I’m alive,” right, “You give me life.” And what is it that pulls us up and out of ourselves if not life, I wonder, and what is life if not color, what color, if not each other? I walk down Fulton holding my yellow umbrella and wonder.