City Lunch

There's a kid wearing khaki shorts and a plain undershirt loading the back of his S-10. He looks up at me, holding a laundry basket with keyboard cords and stereo equipment spun together like a chunk of steel wool. He squints and looks into my face. Middle of the face pinched together like a magician's handkerchief.

This makes me uncomfortable. I'm up on my apartment balcony with my legs propped on the railing. Shifting weight back and forth on the balls of my feet. Leaves turn over anticipating rain. A mother bird perched on my neighbor's roof digs her nose into her nest. Sauce drips onto my work uniform from my sandwich. I'm drinking Sierra Mist from the two-liter bottle in gulps that push my cheeks out. I spill sauce in lines and I keep watching the basket.

I look back down and watch the kid rub sleep from his eyes. Lazy. He points down the street towards Ormsby and says, "I'm going back home for good."

"Great," I push my thumb into sandwich crust,"then you won't need directions."

He grabs at his crotch. I assume he needs to use the bathroom. Spring trees drop berries onto the ground and leaves keep turning over waiting for it to rain. Truck door slams shut and the starter clicks four times. I think to myself not enough spark, check your plug gap. Head out the window, adjusting his seatbelt. A woman rides by on a bike with an empty child seat towing behind her. Helmet swinging by its straps from the handlebars.

Bread crumbs float at the top of my soda and the kid yells something as his starter clicks again. I get up from my chair and hope he stops halfway home.