A trickle of light pokes through the tiny opening through which the strings that support the blinds in his window. As the sun moves across the Midwestern sky, the eight-minute old ray of brightness crawls along the pillow before making its way across Diego's eyes. He blinks rapidly in response and turns his head slightly to avoid it. He arches his back as he stretches. Wiggling his fingers and toes he reaches as far as his body will let him, and then he reaches further. He takes a deep breath in and exhales loudly with a shout and snaps back into a fetal position in his bed. With a single fluid movement, he rotates toward the edge of the bed, flings his blanket off him and kicks his feet out. Placing his palms on his lower back he arches himself backward until he can see his clock. 10:22 AM. With a shrug, he rights himself, grabs his door handle and heads out into the kitchen.
Jamish taps feverishly against the mechanical keyboard on his desk. The click and clack are metered and somewhat soothing. There is a calming sensation that covers the body when at the peak of focus in the zone. Fingers dance along the keys in a synchronized ballet. The sounds of the office are drowned out. The beating of his heart is his metronome for the creation of never-ending code. Pausing to review a portion of what was recently written and falling back in love with the work that shaped his formative years, Jamish is filled with pride. He reaches out for his breve latte without looking and bumps it with his fingertips. He juts himself forward and grabs it just before it tips completely over, but there is some that splashes up through the tiny mouth opening and lands harmlessly on the desk beside his keyboard. He stands and stretches his hands upward reaching for the stars. Wiggling his fingers and toes he takes a breath in and exhales loudly. Placing his palms on his lower back he arches himself backward until he can see his clock on the wall behind him. 10:22 AM. With a shrug, he rights himself, grabs a hold of his office chair and plops down and gets back to work.
Penelope grabs the handle to the co-working space and pulls the heavy metal door open. Moving through the hall as though she were floating, she makes her way to front door of You Are Here. With more strength than necessary, she yanks that door open until it slams into the rubber stoppers on the wall beside it. Startled, she looks at the door and then quickly up at the receptionist immediately inside the room. Waving her off, she calls out, “That door does that, don't worry about it. Your stack is here.” With a smile and a nod, Penelope grabs her stack and heads back out from whence she came before the door she yanked open fully closes behind her. She heads back outside and off to the park to disseminate today's stack of advertisements for the upstart co-working space. With fervor and as much gusto as she can muster, she greets everyone coming through the park and passes out her stack. The chilly air weighs heavily on her lungs. A chill rises within her and flows from her toes up to the top of her head. She does a shimmy and a few dance steps to move the blood in her system. She glances back and forth and decides she has enough time for a good stretch. Putting her stack on the floor at her feet, she, hinged at the waist, dangles her arms before her and slowly straightens up keeping her chin buried in her chest. Lifting her arms above her head she stretches toward the heavens and begins wiggling her fingers and toes. She takes a breath in and with a gust of an exhale lets out a yell. She places her palms on the small of her back and leans back. Just behind her a boy calls out to his father, “Hey dad, what time is it?” His father quickly responds, “11:22 AM.” She rights herself and shakes out the stretch. With a shrug, she picks the stack back up and continues passing out the coupons.
The room is dimly lit, and the air is filled with the aromas of essential oils, burning sage and sex. An instrumental hip hop track plays softly on the record player in the corner of the room. Dancing light from a faux fireplace illuminates the caramel face and the amber arm upon which it is laid. Qisha licks her lips and tastes the morning. Humming as she exhales, she pulls her hands up to her torso, rotates and lifts herself into a half plank. Resting her forehead on arm that was her pillow, she extends her arms into a full plank until her body is raised above the floor and perfectly straight. Her impeccable form attests to her fastidious pursuits of fitness. Slowly tiptoeing forward into a jackknife, her palms now flat on the floor and her knees perfectly set, she inhales deeply and lifts her torso as she exhales. Lifting her arms, she extends into a full stretch with her hands reaching for the heavens. Wiggling her fingers and toes as she stretches, she breathes in deeply and loudly exhales. Placing her palms on the small of her back, she leans backward pointing her belly button toward the sky. Her beautifully erect afro stands up and leans gracefully toward the floor as she leans back. She eyes the microwave behind her, 11:22 AM. She snaps back up and begins eyeing the room for her clothing. She snags her underwear with her toes and lifts them to her hands. Again, her nimble toes find her other articles of clothing. Now almost fully dressed, buttoning up her last few buttons, the man lying beside her just a few moments ago groans as he stretches. He watches her dress herself for a moment, then sits up. “Are you leaving?”
“Yeah. This was a good time, but I am having lunch with Penny in Central Park.”
Affixing her hoop earrings to her separated lobes and sliding into her 3-inch heeled ankle high boots, she scans the apartment for anything she may have missed. She reaches into her bag and heads to the bathroom. Her rule is to never leave without brushing her teeth. Never ever. You start the day with a clean mouth, or you stay in bed. After a few minutes of brushing and quickly washing her face, she grabs her jacket and heads out without stopping to say goodbye. With a shrug, she softly says to herself, “I’ll text him later.”
Jamish's phone buzzes. Lost in work as the sun moves across the sky, he doesn't see the flicker of the screen as the notification pops up. Again, and again it buzzes. 25 messages later, Jamish catches a glimpse of a flickering blue light from his face down phone on the desk beside him.
“25 messages? Come on, man. You better be hurt.”
He glances through them from most recent,
1:15 JAMISH JAMISH JAMISH
1:14 Dude. Answer already.
1:02 I hope you're not dead.
12:44 I'm going to poop in one of your shoes.
“Diego... I'm going to murder your stupid face. He better not poop in my shoes.” Skipping ahead to the initial message,
11:22 I've only been awake an hour, but I have a great idea.
What if we buy some steaks and you make your famous
mashed potatoes. We haven't cooked in a while. I miss it.
“That's actually a great idea. We haven't spent much time together, especially since we had that talk. Yeah. Fuck yeah, unless he pooped in my shoe. Then he's dead.”
1:16 hey dickhead, there better not be poop in my shoes. and are you getting
the steaks or do I have to? and potatoes. and garlic. and cheese. and cream cheese. and chives. and seasoning? cuz i'm not.
1:16 So you're alive I see. brb, I have to go outside and get all your stuff and cancel the eulogy I sent to the newspaper.
1:16 suuuuuuper cute. Hilarious.
1:18 Oh, you think so? #blessed Anyways, I already bought everything.
1:22 good, cuz I don't want to stop at the store.
The frequency of running trains is mostly dependable as public works are want to be. The hustle and bustle of the street beckons you along as you walk so as not to be swept up in the momentum of the many people making their way from here to there. Keep your head down, keep moving, don't stop. All day, every day the sidewalks are teeming with life. The sounds of the city whisper in the ears of its inhabitants. Alternating from the floor to the expanse ahead of her, Qisha swiftly makes her way along. Close to the subway station she can feel a rumble and heads quickly down to the turnstiles. She convinces an unlimited monthly pass rider to swipe her in as they push through on their way out. She heads down the stairs and takes a seat on a bench against the wall not far from a busker singing their heart out as they lovingly play their mandolin. She digs in her purse for her phone and cannot find it. Dread starts in her toes and crawls up, enveloping her completely within moments. Desperately trying to fight the impending panic and potential anxiety attack she sifts through all her things. Growing more and more desperate, she turns her purse upside down to expose a few beauty products, a lighter, a couple pens and other things. There is no phone. Tears are accumulating in her eyes. Not the sad kind, the angry kind that accompany a furrowed brow, heavy exhales through the nose like a piping hot bull set on destroying a matador. Defeated and not at all wanting to go back to his apartment she slides back on the bench and rests against the wall behind her. Slowly lying her head back, she places her hands in her pockets. Her phone. “Oh my god, Qisha. You are so lucky. I would have kicked your ass. My ass. My own ass.”
The sun above smiles down on Penelope, kissing her nose and cheeks and warming her as its rests at the highest of heights. The days are getting longer again. Only by moments, but the extra few minutes of light are always welcome and are reassuring of brighter days to come. She has two fliers left and as her phone buzzes in her back pocket, she finds two people to quickly dispatch the remainder. “Oh hey, Qisha. How was last night!?”
“Hey, Penny. It was great! Almost completely undone when I couldn't find my phone a few minutes ago. And I'm sitting here at 12%, so if the call ends, maybe I hung up on you, maybe I didn't.”
“Always at the end of your battery. Nice to have you in the club, finally.”
“Right? I'm going to pick up a bottle of prosecco. You want one?”
“We could share one.”
“I can get you one if you want to drink.”
“I mean, I guess. I don't think I can drink a whole one. I have to work tomorrow.”
“Babe, I'm sure you'll be fine.”
“Yeah, okay, 'boo'. 'Bae.' Those don't feel as good, but yeah, I'll drink with you. Tell me about that guy, Fred? Frank? What was his name?”
“Fred. Or Frank.”
They share a laugh. Qisha puts her phone back in her jacket pocket and then just as quickly as it laid it there, she retrieves it, deposits it in her purse and zips it shut. Her train comes and she scampers off as the busker pauses his playing to notice her as she goes. The bounce of her hair with every step is almost melodic and he starts playing again to the pace of her steps.
To be continued…