The phonebooth light had gone out some months ago with no indication of ever being fixed. The black box sits next to its taller shadow near the corner of 31st and W, it smells of piss, but strangely, a hint of rosemary too. It’s an odd sensation, being hit with the sharp fumes of urine only for the nostrils to be immediately calmed, this feeling repeating over and over until reaching the corner and turning.
On the corner is the mechanics, whose florescent lights illuminate half the street, often recieving complaints if having a late night. The tubes uttering the white buzz must dart past the shutters of nearby apartments, poking into the eyeballs. But it’s not late yet, the complaints will have to wait.
Next door a taxi service that is both always open and always closed, the kind of place that is only available when one doesn’t need it. A man at the counter is scrolling on his phone, face lit up in changing colours. The buses are still running, he’ll be sat there with nothing to do for a long time.
The next few commerial spaces have large signs that have phone numbers and names of realtors. There used to be a café in one, a boutique of somekind in the other, before that they were shutters again, and on and off they went, nothing staying long enough to plant their roots. Shops like college students, thinking of sticking around but most end up going. The ones that stay tend to be concerning, wondering what a place like this has to offer when all is said and done? You can find a cornershop in most places, a pub too, what’s so speacial about this spot? Rents not cheap, friends are scattered borough to borough, no kids so who cares about the school district. Nah, it was what was availble wasn’t it? Not too far from work, not close either. It all looks the same anyways.
Someone in a hoodie even though it’s still rather warm is having a smoke, leaning against an entry way, the grey cloud pressing upwards and fading into nothing. A car drives by blasting music, the red lights turn the smokers face more ominious, the mood has shifted to something more sinister. Then the brake lights turn off and it’s back to the hushed blue tones of the early evening. No longer afternoon but not yet night, there is a widening possibility of what the rest of the day could bring. Bar lights turn on, neon signs for beer, the sidewalk is getting brighter as everything else darkens. It would be simple to turn and open one of the doors, sit down alone, with a shallow glass of something drunk too quickly. But the world feels like it’s spinning, the way the pavement moves like this place really is just a giant orbital rock jettisoning through space. Sometimes its easy to become too aware of it, like you’re gonna suddenly start falling up, like the sky is one big hole.
It’s too soon for the young ones to be making their way out, still just the middle-aged, the parents, those who want to get to bed at a decent time and avoid the crowds, it’s their time to find a quiet spot in a corner, once the noise begins to blur it is their que to leave. But for now, the quiet hum of the occasionally car driving by.
A man in hi-vis on a bicycle is locking up the park gates, warning those still sat inside that they’re gonna have to climb out. Some get up but most stay put and later might tear their clothes on the fence posts.
The turn into the residental area has a much better candor. The windows share warm light, on occasion a body can be seen moving to and fro, a TV flicking through channels, a dinner table being set. Some tables only have a couple plates, plastic cups, remnants of the days projects to be tidied up. Other tables had crystal wine glasses, napkins folded like swans, the kind where a guest would have multiple forks and some might wonder what each are for. One window had a single candle glowing, left to wonder if someone was nearby to put it out if need be.
The clouds casted shadows, the moon had made her debute. She lit up the evening after the dark blue had faded, a shred of it found in certain corners of backyard fences overlooking. Here, stopping for a moment, a set of stairs leading to a door. The door itself not aged nor very new, unnoticable. It was the mailbox built into it that made one stop for a moment to look, if the one knew that it was far older than any building in the square. It had been shipped down from up North, still in it’s first home, but the original door was broken apart, thrown into waste piles, while the mail slot was eventually found in a charity shop and at some point put back to work. Even just looking at it, it was obvious it creaked whenever moved. But some found it charming, some annoying, but those who lived in the house always knew when mail arrived.
A park emerges on the corner, shattered with lights. A drunk is laying in the grass with two bags of groceries, just giving themselves a moment in the dark before making their way home. They think to close their eyes for a moment then realise if they kept them closed a moment longer they’d pass out. So they pull themselves up, not dusting off the grass that still sticks on. Further down the path people sit in a circle, playing music softly from a phone, not loud but the quality of the speakers makes it abrasive. A pub turns on its lights nearby. The many people sat inside turn into blurry shots of light.
The last football game is played in the dark, two points and it’s over. Even in the dark the players keep swift, as if the light made no difference. As night takes over, we fade into nothing.
Thank you for reading,
Enya x
What I’ve Been Listening To This Week: