Cityscapes
Factories turned into projects into grey apartment buildings. Driving into the city wasn’t, never had been, scenic. As the buildings became more convoluted, the sun set and the sky was dark and the windows glowed yellow and white. People like looking at cityscapes, but it isn’t because they’re beautiful. It’s because they like thinking about all the people under all those shining lights. People like big numbers and people like awe. Cityscapes aren’t about beauty, they’re about awe, she thought as she drove under the overpass. Thinking about the stars and the universe is maybe similar, but it feels scary and empty and small. Thinking about cities feels right because you can be there.
Money into the meter, turn the knob. As a kid this was the most fun; this was responsibility but it made a clink and the little dial on the meter would move. Now the little dials were digital. The digital numbers were never enough time. When they run out, they blink zeroes so the meter maid, or I guess there is a more politically correct name now, leaves a ticket under the wiper. And so she put in all the quarters it took, and she had more, but the numbers wouldn’t budge higher. The time would run out and she would be holding more quarters a half mile away, but she wouldn’t be able to add them and would hope for luck.
She headed down the street to the “lesbian coffee shop.” She never actually remembered what it was called. She just always went there after concerts, because there’s only a Dunkin’ Donuts by the Orpheum and it’s cliché to hang out in Harvard Square, even if you’re coming from Passim’s. It was worth going here because there was always parking and there were hipsters to mock or envy. Sitting at a table, through the window, that was him, wasn’t it? He’d grown a beard this past week, and it definitely looked stupid.
Drawing closer, the girl sticks her tongue out and crosses her eyes through the window, hoping to catch his attention. He looks up, and the beard still looks stupid, but those aren’t actually his eyes or nose or mouth under the scruff. She walks in and walks past avoiding his eyes and humiliation burns. She orders a cup of tea, and heads to the back forgetting her change. The woman with the buzz cut calls her back and gives her a crumpled dollar stamped with “Where’s George?” She had always thought to look it up, to plug that stamped number into a website and find out where it’s been, but always forget or spent the dollar or didn’t care.
She checks her watch, and it takes a minute to recognize the minute from the hour hand. Fashion over function, because a cell phone usually suffices nowadays, but her cell phone was dropped into a swimming pool three days ago.
Forty-five minutes, forty-five minutes of staring around at the posters for queer nights at different clubs. And flipping through a free newspaper, mostly ads for phone sex. The people never looked like their pictures; if they did, they would probably have pursued a more promising career in the sex industry. But she figured the callers ignored or didn’t mind this truth, and just liked talking to somebody. So she left and poured out the rest of the over-steeped tea. She walked back and there was no ticket; there was an extra five minutes that someone else could use. Driving back she knew there had been a few texts that he would claim sending, even though she told him her phone was broken. Or maybe there would be an e-mail the next day if he remembered. She wouldn’t cry because there was no reason, of course. It was a nice evening out, it’s nice to spend time alone and sip tea at a coffee shop. The city lights were blurry though. The radio was painfully loud, and it hurt but she couldn’t turn it down, and the city lights were still there all orange and yellow.
3 years ago • Notes