A Wait

The new bus stops had a staggered row of narrow seats. Still he felt awkward about using them, able-bodied and guilty for taking a moment of respite when he could otherwise stand. A woman with overflowing tote bags sat, bags at her feet, on the seat beside her, tumbling off of a rolling cart. He looked up at the arrival times. “Bus should be here,” he thought quickly, then pushed the thought aside. Across the street a man played on his phone while a dog finished off a fast food bag. Two teens on e-bikes rode in the street, yelling about the lack of space between cars. Behind him somebody overturned the trash can and dug through for empty bottles, filling their own sack with clinking glass. He turned the volume up on his headphones, then flicked his eyes back to the arrival chart. 

No. 141

Coffee

Jacqueline’s morning coffee tasted bitter—too little cream. She had been told to cut back, to try taking it black, to lower her sugar intake. You can handle it, she told herself. Out the window, she watched her neighbor try and fail to start his motorcycle, the engine sputtering before a cough of black smoke filled the air.

He came back to her mind; how pitiful he was in her eyes. It had been rude to ignore him, to step back. The look in his eyes at dinner—desperate, pupils dilating at the plates of food—combined with the ravenous way he swallowed the plate diminished his virtues. A gnawing grew in her stomach, the bitter coffee unsettling her. She picked up her phone and began to compose a message of remorse.

No. 128

Payment Plan

The maintenance associate prepared the invoice and called the man over for payment. She explained the procedure the vehicle needed—extensive engine repair, decades-old wear—and told him it would be a few days, maybe a week, before it was finished.

“We’re remodeling our house,” he told her. “Anything to keep the cost down?”

She offered him a finance plan: a credit card that would be mailed to him. He could look up the APR himself. There seemed to be a card for everything these days—the dentist, the vet, the grocery stores, the box stores. Recently the dealership had gotten into the business, but a guilt gnawed at her trying to sell it.

“Let me see if I can find a coupon.”

No. 073

Showing Up

“I was up late last night working. Yes, this project is a nightmare, but that wasn’t the whole story. So one of my friends had a dog that died last night, and I went over to her apartment and spent 5 hours with her. I should’ve put up stronger boundaries with this friend—she does this kind of thing all the time. We’ve been friends since college; she doesn’t have family here. I got home after midnight and had to validate all the files until 3 in the morning. Yeah. I know. Then I was up at 7 to touch base with the team again. That's all I’ve been doing today. If I had just told my friend to deal with it herself, I wouldn’t be so tired.”

No. 071

Fern 2

Halfway through the season spring cleaning inspired the owner of the dying fern. By the time I walked past it again two days later, the plant had been removed, put in an organic waste bin. Only a single, weathered frond lay in its former place, the sole reminder of what had been. I felt to blame, a little bit, as if by voicing its observation I had written its demise.

No. 058

Fern

On a narrow balcony, a sallow fern grew out of a plastic pot. The balcony had no door; instead, it ran along the side of a building, accessible by two windows. From the outside, it looked like they opened inward and not very far. I imagined the renter, or the owner, purchasing the fern, young and verdant, placing it on the balcony to make the building inviting. I imagined, too, the accumulated weight of passing days that obscured the needs of the plant. Upon initial recognition, they would have tried watering it, bringing it back to life. Too far gone—instead, the fern was left forlorn in the shade to wilt and die. 

No. 056

Shoplifter

While inspecting a bundle of brussels sprouts, I heard a man raise his voice behind me. Whipping my head around, I saw the source: a man around my age, possibly younger, clutching at his backpack. The store security guard held onto the straps. An employee stood behind him.

“I told you, I don’t got shit in this backpack except the salad.” The security guard insisted he go through the backpack. The suspect repeated his phrase louder, so more people in the store could hear. Everyone now had their eyes on the altercation. Mine roamed to the pistol harnessed at the waist of the security guard.

The young man insisted there was nothing in his backpack, but tensions had grown too strong. To alleviate the situation, the security guard escorted him to an emergency exit. With permission, the suspect absconded with the salad. The emergency alarm kept ringing throughout the rest of the grocery store trip.

No. 053

Gossamer

Round the corner and past a pole—unseen by my eyes a thin gossamer hangs taut between a stop sign and a streetlight. Caught on my glasses, I wiped it away hurriedly, brushing the web in frantic movements. It’s one of my pet peeves, breaking them. There’s the worry I didn’t remove it all, or had a spider in my hair, and the knowledge that I alone destroyed its creation.

No. 037