Sometimes, ordinary days are extraordinary days: day 1
:: I've been going through a extreme amount of writers block so i've decided to force myself. Everyday, for a month, so that is until September 28, I'll write a short story. Something between 500-1000 words, nothing spectacular or special, just whatever flits into my brain. As always, I'd love and appreciate any and all feedback ♥
Sometimes, ordinary days are extraordinary days. Day 1:
He watches her from his window, a woman standing on his street corner, waiting as her small brown dog relieves itself on the lamppost that he taps every morning on his way to work with his right index finger. He watches her the same way he has watched her everyday this week, quietly, casually, and with the utmost attention to detail. He sees, for example, that she tucks her hair behind her ear continuously, even though, considering its short and cropped style, it does not seem to obscure her view. He sees the way her dog walks in tight circles around the lamppost, tangling his leash, much to her amusement and mock frustration. He sees the way she scolds him with a smile, gently extracting the leash and going on her way. He sees her walk with a slight limp, as though she's forgotten the injury that caused it though it hangs around in her step like a lingering ghost.
He wonders why she's decided to come this route every day of this week, waiting until the sun has set and strolling along the dark, empty roads, always stopping on the corner of his street, right in his view. The first time he saw her it had been nothing more than a stray glance, his eyesight skipping up from Oliver Twist's page 62 and onto her wrinkled face. She’d been back the next day, always walking by during his allotted reading time, around nine o clock. He’d paused, watched her, noticed her small movements, the little things you do when you’re unaware anyone’s watching, and then he watched her walk away. The whole ritual lasts only a few minutes, seven at the most, depending on how restless her dog is being or how much she’s enjoying the night air.
She smokes for the first time today, slowly drawing out a cigarette and lighter from her left coat pocket. She places the cigarette between her lips and lights it all with the same hand, the other dutifully clutching her leash. She smokes like it’s riding a bike after your childhood is long gone and biking seems a faraway, fantasy activity. As though she’s recalling the way smoke feels traveling down your lungs in a delicious burn like it’s a faint memory from a rebellious past. He’s a smoker. He knows the feeling and relishes it on her every inhale.
Sometimes she slips into his mind during the day, never when he briskly walks to work, tapping that lamppost, but in unusual moments, when his imagination wanders. He thinks about a summer two years ago when he’d considering buying a Labrador. His sister’s had just had a litter and they’d called him up to see the puppies, little bundles of fur that terrified and intrigued him. Of course the hassle that they represented outweighed their soft, damp noses and sleepy yawns, meaning he’d left empty handed. Now, he thinks about walking a springy Labrador down his street to settle at the corner, lapsing into silence before she comes across him. They’d strike up awkward conversation while their daring counterparts sniffed and nudged each other. Perhaps they’d exchange names, even numbers, agree to meet up for a walk the following day, grab coffee after that walk and then-
He stands up from his position at the window, rests his book on his bedside table (Oliver Twist, page 62), and walks over to the bed. Lying down, he clicks off the small light to his left and lies in the darkness. The lamppost on the corner of his street gives off a faint light that drips through his window frame.
Sometimes, ordinary days are extraordinary days. Day 1:
He watches her from his window, a woman standing on his street corner, waiting as her small brown dog relieves itself on the lamppost that he taps every morning on his way to work with his right index finger. He watches her the same way he has watched her everyday this week, quietly, casually, and with the utmost attention to detail. He sees, for example, that she tucks her hair behind her ear continuously, even though, considering its short and cropped style, it does not seem to obscure her view. He sees the way her dog walks in tight circles around the lamppost, tangling his leash, much to her amusement and mock frustration. He sees the way she scolds him with a smile, gently extracting the leash and going on her way. He sees her walk with a slight limp, as though she's forgotten the injury that caused it though it hangs around in her step like a lingering ghost.
He wonders why she's decided to come this route every day of this week, waiting until the sun has set and strolling along the dark, empty roads, always stopping on the corner of his street, right in his view. The first time he saw her it had been nothing more than a stray glance, his eyesight skipping up from Oliver Twist's page 62 and onto her wrinkled face. She’d been back the next day, always walking by during his allotted reading time, around nine o clock. He’d paused, watched her, noticed her small movements, the little things you do when you’re unaware anyone’s watching, and then he watched her walk away. The whole ritual lasts only a few minutes, seven at the most, depending on how restless her dog is being or how much she’s enjoying the night air.
She smokes for the first time today, slowly drawing out a cigarette and lighter from her left coat pocket. She places the cigarette between her lips and lights it all with the same hand, the other dutifully clutching her leash. She smokes like it’s riding a bike after your childhood is long gone and biking seems a faraway, fantasy activity. As though she’s recalling the way smoke feels traveling down your lungs in a delicious burn like it’s a faint memory from a rebellious past. He’s a smoker. He knows the feeling and relishes it on her every inhale.
Sometimes she slips into his mind during the day, never when he briskly walks to work, tapping that lamppost, but in unusual moments, when his imagination wanders. He thinks about a summer two years ago when he’d considering buying a Labrador. His sister’s had just had a litter and they’d called him up to see the puppies, little bundles of fur that terrified and intrigued him. Of course the hassle that they represented outweighed their soft, damp noses and sleepy yawns, meaning he’d left empty handed. Now, he thinks about walking a springy Labrador down his street to settle at the corner, lapsing into silence before she comes across him. They’d strike up awkward conversation while their daring counterparts sniffed and nudged each other. Perhaps they’d exchange names, even numbers, agree to meet up for a walk the following day, grab coffee after that walk and then-
He stands up from his position at the window, rests his book on his bedside table (Oliver Twist, page 62), and walks over to the bed. Lying down, he clicks off the small light to his left and lies in the darkness. The lamppost on the corner of his street gives off a faint light that drips through his window frame.