by David Faden
June 1, 2002.
See. Hear. Taste. Smell. Touch.
Green. Gray. Brown. Grass. Sidewalk. Soil. A whir. A car engine. A horn. "What time is it?" Dry spit. Salt. Lilacs. Gasoline. The thumb rubs against the index finger. The cramped toes wiggle.
"Excuse me, can you tell me what time it is?" she says.
"Yeah, it's 3 o'clock," he says.
"Thanks."
The fingers are held to the mouth as if to hold a cigarette. The eyelids clap shut. The sun flashes off the passenger side view mirror. The head follows the car. He can't hear her footsteps anymore. The thumbs slide into the pockets. Up the hill he walks.
Skin. A neck. Hair. Person. People. Talking. "Oh, they've been around for a long time." Eyes. Nose. Lips.
"Hey, I haven't seen you in a while."
"Yeah," he says.
"How you been?"
"Pretty good," he says.
The eyes blink. A pigeon lands on top of a light pole. A woman with blonde hair closes the window with the off-white drapes.
"How have you been?" he says.
"Oh, I've been pretty good, too. Working for my dad this summer. Remember Anne from high school?"
"Yeah."
"She and I are engaged. Got engaged last month."
"Congratulations."
"Thanks! We haven't gotten around to picking a wedding date yet. Well, we've both gotten around to picking dates, we just haven't gotten around to picking the same date yet."
Muscles relax. Muscle contract. A smile emerges to match the smile.
"So, what've you been up to?"
"Oh, I'm still working down at the grocery store," he says.
"Oh. Are you a manager now?"
"Nope."
"Oh."
"It's been nice talking to you."
"Oh, do you have to leave so soon? Well, nice seeing you. See you at the reunion."
"Yep. See you later."
The back straightens as the toes point down the hill. The shadow of a cloud passes over his neck. His shadow reappears. Each gap in the sidewalk is a ripple up through the shadow.
"Hey, what the hell are doing?" he says. The teeth grind.
Tan. Sand. A pile of crumbs of dirt. Metal. Sunlight glints off the glass. A child's hand around the handle. Two black lines, quivering. He hears the ant crackle as it hits the white dot.
"Give me that!"
The child is in his shadow. The white dot is gone. The metal rim jabs into his palm. He feels the the handle. He tears the magnifying glass away from the child. He flings it into the street. The glass shatters. One sherd sends out a rainbow.
"You son of a bitch," the child says. "You fucking son of a bitch. Didn't you ever burn ants, you God damn son of a bitch." Tears stream from the child's eyes.
"Yeah, but I don't do it anymore. Neither should you."
"Who the hell are you? Just wait till my dad hears about this. Just wait here, you freaking psycho. Yeah, my dad'll want to talk to you."
An ant clutches its half-burned comrade. A door slams. The ant drags the body away from the hole.
His own footsteps. Sand crunches into cement. Each gap in the sidewalk is a ripple up through the shadow. No hurry.
A sound from behind. Quiet. Distant. "You son of a bitch! You come back here and apologize to my son. Hey, I'm talking to you. Hey. God damn, I don't know you, but if I ever see you around here or anywhere again, I swear I'll beat the living crap out of you. God damn fruity busybody."
Green. Parallel veins. Two grass blades wave. A gnat lets go and catches the breeze. Away.
Quieter still. "What the hell's so special about ants? Why'd you have to break the glass, you nosy bastard. You come back here. You come back here now and fight." The wind blows back the other way, and he hears the voice no more.