Art
There he is again same time every night. Same hoodie and the same notebook he carries. I believe he's homeless because he always falls asleep on here and it's still just him and I riding to the same stop except he doesn't get off. He rests his head on the separator and drifts off to the rhythm of the tracks. Tonight is different because he's not there.
I'm wondering where he could be possibly. Three days pass and he's back. Everything is the same as last time. He never looks up and he never lets go of his book.
Tonight I'm off early and I'm surprised he's waiting for the train like me. I watch him his every move like a profiler. He is inching closer pass the yellow line. Like he is trying to cross it on purpose. There are two transit officers approaching him and they arrest him. While he puts up a fight he looses his book in the scuffle.
I relinquish it I open to find sketches of everyone and everything he's seen. He drew me several times and made stories of my days. The next day I wait at the same stop and nothing he's not there today. Maybe he did some real harm to someone. But his drawings are peaceful especially the one with the bits of blood splatter from my head when the man left to me pulls out the gun and bury the bullet deep into my cranial cavity.
Anyone else would find this disturbing but art is beautiful in his own way. As I'm flipping through the book a man in a suit with a brief case to his chest sits beside me and the more I flip the tighter he grabs his brief case. When I reach the end the man is holding a gun to my head and art splatters and covers the train and everyone inside it.
Strangers
There is a little girl in the hotel courtyard, playing hopscotch with broken chalk.
Pigtails bounce in the morning light and she giggles to herself.
Hotel patrons watch from a distance, smiling for a moment before moving on.
Nobody notices the look in her eyes, the one she hides behind an innocent smile.
The morning rush passes and the courtyard is empty, save for the little girl.
A man rounds the corner and there is nobody left to see the girl reach beneath her skirt.
Nobody left to watch her remove a gun.
The man freezes as she turns the safety off with a delicate hand, little fingers trembling.
The man speaks, his voice measured, though his body trembles.
"Who am I but a stranger to you? Why target me?"
The little girl giggles, the sound lacking any emotion.
"We are not strangers."
He had woken up at noon, missing breakfast altogether, instead opting for a ham and cheese sandwich. He held his phone, checking notifications and responding to texts as he ate. His dark, wavy locks appeared as if they had been home to a few pigeons throughout the night. After scarfing down his sandwich, he spent a total of five minutes throwing together an outfit, before stuffing a towel into an adidas cinch bag and biking to his friend’s pool. He had to be at work by four, and it was already nearly one. By two thirty, he was back home. He texted his friends and posted on his story. Then, he got ready for work, throwing on shorts and a random lacrosse shirt. He left at three thirty. At nine fifteen, he saw a girl, maybe a year younger than him, with what was obviously her family. They were carbon copies of the mother, blonde hair and blues eyes for all three children. He snuck glances at her while she waited in line for ice cream. Wavy, tangled hair and sun-kissed shoulders, exposed by the blue, floral tube top she was wearing. It seemed as though she was laughing the whole time she waited, her ocean eyes seemed to be perpetually smiling. Jeans, rolled above her ankles and beat-up flip-flops. She was looking at him occasionally, too. She didn’t end up at his window, but one he was working near. He watched the surprised look on her face when she was handed a waffle cone filled with two scoops of chocolate ice cream, enough for her to be handed a small dish with it. The rainbow sprinkles really were the finishing touch. He saw her stealing glances at him while he scooped ice cream for another family. He looked over, instinctively. Their eyes met. She blushed, quickly looking away. His gaze lingered a moment longer, before he got back to work. He saw her leave, not having finished her cone. Ten o’clock finally rolled around, and he drove straight home. Walking into his house, he shut the door slowly, as not to wake his mom or brother. Another ham and cheese sandwich for dinner, but this time he added pickles and tomatoes, for good measure. He carried a water bottle up to his room. After his shower, he put on his dad’s old hoodie. It still smelled like him. Tired and somber, he pulled out his earbuds and started his most comforting playlist. All the songs he remembered his dad listening to when he was younger. Earbuds in, hoodie on, he fell asleep on top of his covers at midnight.
Pretty in Pink
I’m at Bella Vita, celebrating my mom’s sixtieth birthday when I see her. She’s a tall, curvy woman who appears to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She certainly stands out with her long, wavy pink hair. She looks beautiful in her matching sleeveless, rose-designed cocktail dress and heels.
It’s easy to tell that she’s the center of the celebration, not only because of her looks, but because of how she’s making it a point to socialize with every single person at the party. Off to the side, there’s another table that has a bunch of gifts on it, all wrapped up in pink. I’m guessing that she’s either having a baby shower or a bridal shower.
As everyone chats over wine, I tell one of my mom’s friends how much I want to compliment the woman. Unlike me, Ginny has no qualms about getting the woman’s attention. Ginny asks the woman what she’s celebrating and the woman confirms that she’s having a bridal shower in a sweet, soft voice. We congratulate and compliment her. She thanks us on both accounts before she turns her attention back to her guests.
For whatever reason, I’m left feeling dissatisfied. Maybe it’s because of how short that interaction was or maybe it’s because I’m jealous. Here I am: a single, unemployed woman in her late twenties, who still lives with her parents and barely has any friends. In comparsion, this woman’s life seems much more fulfilled. She’s clearly taken. She has to have some kind of job. There’s no way she’s still living at home. She has to be living with her soon-to-be husband or wife. The amount of guests at her bridal shower is a testament to how many people are in her corner. Whatever the case may be, I can’t help but think of how lucky her partner is to be with such a nice, beautiful woman.