You see him on the balcony as you watch from a window higher and across. Blinds partially drawn you know what is about to happen. You've stood on that balcony only ten floor higher. A computer rests on your desk in front of your partially drawn window. You peck a message and click post. Others see, respond, and share. And you continue to stare, observe, report. It is uncomfortable but made easier by the cup of coffee and midnight ramen. Your hand trembles and stops on the latch. All you have to do is opn it and scream. But you pause. You hate yelling.
She is on the sidewalk hidden behind a parked car as the police pass. Her exposed thighs shivering from the coastal fog as it creeps ever eastward. Their sporadic shaking matches her quivering tears. Bare feet with toenails painted orange start moving her west towards the only open convenience store. The silver sequins shimmer her discomfort from a too tight dress meant to accentuate.
He lingers as she pauses at the store door, and you watch him watching her. He runs his hand over his chest feeling the spot that once was round. She vanishes as the fog thickens. You no longer see him. You are fearful of what's to come, so you peck again. Then, a response: Do something. Yet, you can't. You are trapped in that moment three years ago and ten floors up. This time you jump.
You land gracefully unharmed as if the ground were merely a gymnastics floor able to give in to the force of your fall. It is your memory you fell into and you can see her in front of you. You didn't notice her as he watched. There is something familiar in her face. Something about the way she watches the ground that is reminiscent of your current position at the partially drawn window.
The circular sirens ring louder and brighter. They pass your eyelids and his stare. You both startle, and you see him slip. He is falling. You did nothing paralyzed by your own discomfiting memory of contemplation.
He lands as you landed: gracefully. His feet bare with toenails painted orange cross the street. A bell buzzes somewhere in another room. It almost begs action, but you resist turning and getting up. Your coffee is still warm; your ramen still hot. You sip and slurp.
He is out of view somewhere among the shadows below obscured by the late night fog. You cannot shake his falling, so you peck again and a bell responds. It sings its song in your ear, and you respond in its chorus:
The ringing rings of memories, hope, despairA message pops on the screen in front of you, "Open the door." The simple command rings louder than the sirens and bell.
ring loudly in my ear.
It asks me to stand up,
but all I can do is stare.
You make your way to your door, and when it opens there you are. With toenails painted orange.
