She doesn’t notice the fat man in the red polo shirt standing beneath the umbrella. He’s dropped his keys on the ground, but he hasn’t noticed. He’s staring at her, remembering the model in the Gucci poster he passed two blocks back, trying to recall if she’s the girl. If she is, she’s far prettier in person.
Nor has she noticed the fat man’s wife standing beneath the umbrella—the one who’s holding it while oblivious to the object of her husband’s staring. The wife catches a passerby picking up the keys while her husband continues his euphoric stare. The wife will turn to him with the intention to scream and scold. Then she’ll look at his eyes, follow their focal point to the girl, and she too will remember the model in the Gucci poster that she passed two blocks back, trying to recall if she’s the girl (and if she is, she’s far prettier in person).
Nor has she noticed that the couple is holding an umbrella even though it’s not raining. She’s staring at the clock on top of the bank building but can’t remember why she needs to know the time. She’s thinking of how the umbrella reminds her of a bowl of skittles, fruit loops, gummy bears, and every other rainbow-sweet-tasting assortment that makes her forget her train time and think about the pastries in the bakery window to her left.
They’ll all continue their respective staring for another few minutes until a tourist bus stops, blocks the couple’s view, and the girl walks away thinking about fruit loops, skittles and pastries, but not about her train.
This part of the story is true. The rest takes place in your head once she walks away, but everyone around continues to daydream about the beautiful girl who belongs in a Gucci ad.