this morning when he woke up the air was wet and heavy and a sullen stillness covered the city outside. from the radio nina simone’s voice dripped like molasses …“tin can at my feet, i think i’ll kick it down the street, tin can at my feet, i think i’ll kick it dooown the street, why not, that’s the way to treat a friend.”
running water from the faucet filled his glass only slightly slower than other mornings and wouldn’t warm so his shave was cold and he nicked himself. he watched as the blood trickled slowly down the curve of the sink, meeting with a water drop and halting momentarily before it overcame the surface tension to mix and stream a little faster to the drain. nina simone’s voice slowed taking on an eerie, warped tone.
standing now on his balcony, the sky a dour grey on a black canvas, he spoke to himself – an unusual murmur like the sound of distant footsteps in an empty museum. a man stopped on the street corner and stared up at him standing on the balcony. there was a shout from around the corner. the man looked behind him down the street then turned around and disappeared the way he had come.
“now it’s come to distances and that’s no way to say goodbye…new York is cold in the morning,” he spoke to the building across the street.
somewhere down the road a car door slammed, a man and a woman laughed conspiratorially. a silent drumming on the rooftop signaled the coming rain. he turned his back to the city, to the street and the aching laugh and to Jane and her famous painting hanging in the whitney.