Supper

The neon signs in the diner vibrated with a hum as he sat beneath them. His usual corner booth. Clock over the stove hung upside down and ran backwards. The waitress, same apron, sneakers, stale cigarette smell, and dove tattoo across her wrist came over. “What’ll it be?” He got a plate of fried chicken, biscuit on the side, local ale. She pocketed the paper menu and didn’t write anything down. It was the same order—She knew at the end of the meal he’d drop two twenties and tell her to keep the difference. He removed a cigarette and lit up, and he knew she wouldn’t complain.

No. 125

Message

She ran her fingers along the fabric, touching cotton, wool, fleece. The thrift store had significant turnover about once a month, and she’d check the second Sunday. At the end of her size, a denim jacket hung on the rack. Vintage. She fit her arms into the thick denim, stretched it over her back, then walked over to a mirror. Looking over herself at odd angles, she pressed her hands into the pockets.

Her fingers caressed folded paper. Carefully, she pulled her hand out and unfolded a note. Scrawled across the top: “To Do” with a date twenty years before. 

“Go to the grocery store. Tomatoes. Bread. Stop at the bank. Call Greg back—tell him Tuesday.”

No. 116

Circling

Late night surrounds the neighborhood and the cars pack the curb. Wooden gates with hand-made “Do Not Block” signage warn circling drivers. Stretches of red paint mock me. The warning’s heeded.

Second block, the street cleaners anticipate empty stretches of road. They’ve made jokes about the difficulty of the parking signs. Bumper to bumper the neighbors stake their claim and leave no hollows for night owls.

A side street offers sprinklers in the night, left to coat cars in staining cries. A Colorado stretches between two spots, leaving no room on either end for someone else. 

Back to the front and no cars have moved. The curb before my living room signals to me a red temptation. Instead, I keep passing packed curbs, resisting convenience in the face of financial cost.

No. 061

On Patience

All around me the sound of ticking clocks. An alarm set, a goal established, a timeline created. In this constant time-awareness a pressure builds within me. It’s in this way I am always impatient. I’d resolve to remove myself from this time crunch, but I wouldn’t know where to begin.

No. 035

Streams

For ambience, as they put it, my parents prefer to watch security camera live streams on YouTube. We had planned a family trip to the Florida Keys, and in anticipation, they watched, daily, the live footage of Duval Street. They knew which bars left their TVs on all night. They knew how often the public trash cans were emptied. It became a part of their routine to monitor the routine of a town and people they did not know.

No. 033

Space Heater

A businessman in his middle fifties crossed Washington in the rain. It came down steadily, and had done so for several days. The lack of umbrella in his hand was not from lack of foresight. The trek through the rain was curious; the streets in Los Angeles were prone to flooding, and, certainly, there had been standing water in the roads for days. As he approached the curb to return to the sidewalk from the road, he misjudged the distance, then stepped his loafer into one standing puddle along the side of the road. The rainwater cascaded over the edge of the shoe, into its fleshy interior, surely soaking his socks and insoles. The businessman—but, really, it was impossible to tell whether he was of the founder ilk or the middle-management caste—ascended the stairs along the side of the building, just a few feet from the road. He almost survived the walk. As his shoes squished beneath his weight on each step, he daydreamed of getting to his office, removing his socks and shoes, and placing his feet as close to his space heater as possible. Perhaps he would rest his socks along the machine, watch as they steamed and smoked. That way they would dry before he had to make the return trek home. He would have to brainstorm ways to dry out the shoes.

No. 020