I sit in a window for a week. I use food as a sedative and then I don’t. I jump across a few puddles in the street and see a few movies. I forgive myself and I don’t. What right did I have to be in a movie theater? I bat at some cherries hanging from an ornamental tree with my umbrella. The tree is private property, behind someone’s iron fence that looks two hundred years old. It protects their house, which looks even older. It looks like a politician’s home. I hear a dog barking inside that warmly lit house. Or else the dog is chortling. I go home and sit in a window for another week. How can I possibly accomplish my life, I think. But then lives are not things which are accomplished. Deeds are accomplished. Lives are lived. The cherries that dangled knew more than I did. They don’t feel the need for an umbrella. I applaud their bravery and self-control. But they are only cherries. Someone could eat them. Anyone. I sit in a corner and pretend to text someone. I mean I begin but stop. But I think I knew I was going to pretend. To make my fingers fidget. To tell the alphabet it was useless, after all. To flirt with the alphabet, and all the work those Phoenicians did, and then to let it down gently.  To be a jerk. Just delete the message. I sit in the window again and watch the rain. If only I could get this job.


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