streets - a very short story
While the rain come down on Chicago, the lightening did the same over the Michigan shore. The lake, doing its part, turned an ominous deep turquoise, and it was dark for 6 pm two days after the summer solstice. He sat facing the window and watched the stream of cars pass by along the drive, and wondered whether he would spot her car among them, on the way back from the airport.
The program from last night’s play sat within reach. The weather was much better 20 hours ago and it showed: the program had spent more time rolled up than it was designed to endure, the consequence of accompanying him the additional 4 blocks to the next El stop and his lack of pockets. Every creased line on the front cover reminded him of how perfect the evening had been and he decided to move it under the book he had been pretending to read for hours.
Instead of reading, his mind had been on that highway. The airport was 12 and a half miles away on the highway and 9 miles on surface streets. The former took 21 minutes on a good day, while the latter took half an hour at least. He realized that each route had it merits: the highway was quicker, but it was stressful to be on and congestion made it impossible; the surface streets took longer, but it was a straight line down a single street and easy to follow. He thought about which he identified with more, and which she would choose.
Last night she would have chosen the surface streets. The first El stop couldn’t have been more than 5 blocks away, but they walked slowly and it felt like a much longer distance. Neither of them minded at all. Along the way, they talked about dried fruit, and how he thought the streets seem to smell like that; they talked about how she did not in fact like apricots, dried or otherwise, despite enjoying beer of that flavor. They stopped in front of a stationary store and peeked in, its delightful offerings thoughtfully lit; a Paul Frank store and its ubiquitous Julius the Monkey products inspired a few comments.
Half a block from their destination, a small ice cream parlor caught both their eyes. She got some banana cake ice cream, handed him the cup and asked him to have the first taste. Now, on the dreary evening after, he realized that single moment made him happier than he had been for a long time; it was just too hard to pick it out from among all the others last night. The ice cream was cool and sweet, not unlike the air.
She asked him how far the next stop was, he told her and she asked whether they could keep walking. He replied in the affirmative, choosing to believe his company, perhaps more so than the cup of ice cream in hand and at least as much as the good weather, motivated that request. They walked by a jewelry store he had seen on a previous visit to this part of the city and he tried to read her mind: he failed and they did not agree on which was the best piece on display.
He would have moments where he wished time would stop; frequently, these moments happened while on a journey with someone he really cares about. Last night, the stretch of Sheffield Avenue, between Armitage and Fullerton, simply could not have been long enough. They pondered the identity of a statue and considered the viability of grilling a turkey, but there was a million other conversations that could have filled an infinitely long walk.
Traffic on the drive looked clear; perhaps the angry looking sky deterred other travelers. Under such conditions, the 21 minutes seemed entirely possible. He wondered whether she realized that. There was a big difference between being in the car and choosing and when looking from out the window and speculating. He found himself wondering again whether he felt more like the highway or the streets, and how she decided to do it.
Except he already knew which she chose. She had told him she was going shopping for light bulbs and given the store she had chosen, there was only one logical way. There was absolutely no reason for her to spend anymore time on the road. She would be eager to get there; she would be more eager to get her lover home; he had been gone all week.
For one reason alone, he thought he must be the streets: people only chose the streets when the highway wasn’t an option. When he woke up that day, he saw that he had missed a call from her earlier in the morning. Later, when he called back, she told him that she had been at the hospital. He didn’t know exactly why she called him, but he knew he wouldn’t, under different circumstance, have been the first choice. He wondered whether he could have gotten her where she was going at all.
The week was over and there was to be no more pretense of importance. He was a substitute, not a replacement; when the highway reopened, the streets found themselves empty. He picked up the book in another attempt to read, revealing the errant program. Only one of the distractions was wanted, so he buried the program under the papers that have taken up residence on his desk. Despite the rain, he wanted some ice cream. Knowing he’ll have to go alone, he decided to bury that impulse as well.
The program from last night’s play sat within reach. The weather was much better 20 hours ago and it showed: the program had spent more time rolled up than it was designed to endure, the consequence of accompanying him the additional 4 blocks to the next El stop and his lack of pockets. Every creased line on the front cover reminded him of how perfect the evening had been and he decided to move it under the book he had been pretending to read for hours.
Instead of reading, his mind had been on that highway. The airport was 12 and a half miles away on the highway and 9 miles on surface streets. The former took 21 minutes on a good day, while the latter took half an hour at least. He realized that each route had it merits: the highway was quicker, but it was stressful to be on and congestion made it impossible; the surface streets took longer, but it was a straight line down a single street and easy to follow. He thought about which he identified with more, and which she would choose.
Last night she would have chosen the surface streets. The first El stop couldn’t have been more than 5 blocks away, but they walked slowly and it felt like a much longer distance. Neither of them minded at all. Along the way, they talked about dried fruit, and how he thought the streets seem to smell like that; they talked about how she did not in fact like apricots, dried or otherwise, despite enjoying beer of that flavor. They stopped in front of a stationary store and peeked in, its delightful offerings thoughtfully lit; a Paul Frank store and its ubiquitous Julius the Monkey products inspired a few comments.
Half a block from their destination, a small ice cream parlor caught both their eyes. She got some banana cake ice cream, handed him the cup and asked him to have the first taste. Now, on the dreary evening after, he realized that single moment made him happier than he had been for a long time; it was just too hard to pick it out from among all the others last night. The ice cream was cool and sweet, not unlike the air.
She asked him how far the next stop was, he told her and she asked whether they could keep walking. He replied in the affirmative, choosing to believe his company, perhaps more so than the cup of ice cream in hand and at least as much as the good weather, motivated that request. They walked by a jewelry store he had seen on a previous visit to this part of the city and he tried to read her mind: he failed and they did not agree on which was the best piece on display.
He would have moments where he wished time would stop; frequently, these moments happened while on a journey with someone he really cares about. Last night, the stretch of Sheffield Avenue, between Armitage and Fullerton, simply could not have been long enough. They pondered the identity of a statue and considered the viability of grilling a turkey, but there was a million other conversations that could have filled an infinitely long walk.
Traffic on the drive looked clear; perhaps the angry looking sky deterred other travelers. Under such conditions, the 21 minutes seemed entirely possible. He wondered whether she realized that. There was a big difference between being in the car and choosing and when looking from out the window and speculating. He found himself wondering again whether he felt more like the highway or the streets, and how she decided to do it.
Except he already knew which she chose. She had told him she was going shopping for light bulbs and given the store she had chosen, there was only one logical way. There was absolutely no reason for her to spend anymore time on the road. She would be eager to get there; she would be more eager to get her lover home; he had been gone all week.
For one reason alone, he thought he must be the streets: people only chose the streets when the highway wasn’t an option. When he woke up that day, he saw that he had missed a call from her earlier in the morning. Later, when he called back, she told him that she had been at the hospital. He didn’t know exactly why she called him, but he knew he wouldn’t, under different circumstance, have been the first choice. He wondered whether he could have gotten her where she was going at all.
The week was over and there was to be no more pretense of importance. He was a substitute, not a replacement; when the highway reopened, the streets found themselves empty. He picked up the book in another attempt to read, revealing the errant program. Only one of the distractions was wanted, so he buried the program under the papers that have taken up residence on his desk. Despite the rain, he wanted some ice cream. Knowing he’ll have to go alone, he decided to bury that impulse as well.
posted by keong at 9:34 PM
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