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|More from Sparkstoaflame||Alternate universe||PG-13||NA||No update page|
May 8, 2014
(something's—a bit new)
(I see darkness.)
The people in this city, they're predictable, like clockwork; thin black hands ticking across a wash of golden city lights blinking faintly in the background.
(I see a lot of things.)
She has dark brown hair.
(Not many people see me.)
—"Oh, there you are!"—
(I'm nameless, I think.)
—"So, I accidentally bought too much for myself this time. A foot-long, you know. I usually eat six-inches...oh gosh, sorry, I told you last time I wouldn't bore you with my sub preferences and I'm at it again—ah, well, do you want a bit of my sandwich?"—
(I don't remember myself, exactly?)
She smiles at me, blue eyes wide and honest over the chunk of BLT in her outstretched hands.
There is a man whose hair is liberally streaked with soft silver, and if I had to guess I think his age would be around his late fifties or early sixties, who drops by regularly at the little bakery that's next to my secluded niche in the wall and I see every day. He whistles the same tune past gap-toothed teeth every day—"American Pie," I think it's called, a song from some far off place in the big wide world named the United States.
("American Pie." It has a nice tune, I think.)
He goes into the pastry shop, never staying for more than five minutes at a time, and always comes out with a different kind of donut. Sometimes with a heavy cream filling, others with chocolate frosting, and yet others with sticky sweet glaze and rainbow-colored sprinkles.
He never notices me.
There is a fair young man who is a clerk at a Swarovski, and I have watched, over the course of one year, him fall deeply in love with the child of some classy restaurant owner just down the street.
I am watching the day the two of them share their first kiss in the night, underneath the hazy yellow glow of a scuffed black streetlamp that has moths fluttering around its bulb, and I am still watching when they are wrenched away from each other by the red-faced, screaming restaurant owner, their fingertips hooking desperately around each other for one last touch before they are separated, forever.
Both of them were male, you see.
Once in a while, someone will see me, and they'll wave and smile a bit. Either that, or quickly turn their heads away.
I don't mind.
I see plenty of things from my corner of the universe; I see drug addicts, I see street performers, I see hippies—I see the other homeless, like me.
I see her, too, but only after she sees me.
(I see her, sometimes.)
For the collective works of the author, go here.