A Quiet Evening

I'm not sure why we chose Tuesday, but that’s when we moved to the city. Inside our new apartment, unpacked boxes took more space than the things inside; it made the room seem more furnished than it was. I was hesitant to unpack so I left. “I'll be back,” I said. I don't know what she said.

I walked down a crowded sidewalk, but it wasn't crowded with people; we were all trees, dressed in our Tuesday clothes - Tuesday coats and Tuesday hats. I felt alone and wondered where the people were, like I was the only boy in the city, except that I wasn't a boy; I was a tree and everyone looked the same. I walked into a store to buy gum. The clerk said what I owed and I looked at the register to make sure; I had read his lips right and handed over two bucks and put the change in my pocket.

It had become dark and traffic jammed the streets. Headlights shot the cars in front and I imagined the beams were a single beam, like long light-skewers piercing through a car-kebob. I chewed a piece of gum and popped it rapid-fire. I know it's a bothersome habit, but I did it anyway and wondered how it felt to be annoyed by sound. One time I stood in line for a ride at the fair and fired my mouth machine-gun until a man asked me to stop. I didn't know he asked me to stop so I didn't and he tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned around and saw his face, I didn't need my ears to know he was angry.

At an intersection, I crossed with the crowd when the light changed, each of us a separate part of the bunch. I felt like a grape and I felt happy to be with other grapes. Grapes were much better than trees. Trees stood alone and made me feel lonesome. I didn't feel that way when I was a grape.

After a bit, I stopped to watch a Santa. He rang a bell and I wondered if the sound helped him collect more money. I thought it would be annoying, like my gum. Still, I donated the coins from my pocket. Steps later, I passed a homeless man holding a cup and wished I'd waited.

A sign advertised the best Chinese in the city so I walked in to taste for myself. I pointed to my choice, paid, and pocketed my change. I ate and decided the sign had lied. I left and went back to the homeless man. I dropped the coins in the cup and hoped they clanged with others already there. He mumbled something but his beard covered his mouth and wouldn't let me see what he had said. I imagined he felt like a tree and never like a grape.

Back at my building, I climbed the stairs. Someone had posted a note to the maintenance man, complaining that they creaked, but I couldn't know. She greeted me at the door and asked what the city was like. “Loud,” I replied. She laughed at my sarcasm. She had unpacked and our apartment looked empty.

“Does the bell really matter?” I watched her mouth and waited for the answer. Reading people's lips was easy. I used to wish I could read their minds, too.

“Bell?”

“Santa, ringing the bell. Does the sound make a difference?”

“You give him any money?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess it doesn't make a difference.”

I asked if she wanted some tea. “Sounds good,” she said. I asked if she was trying to be funny and we both laughed. When I handed over her mug, we blew ripples into the surface.

“I felt like a grape,” I said.

“When?”

“When I crossed the street.”

She smiled because she knew that was good. The tea was still hot and we blew more ripples.