Austin Gates

Maybe Tuesday

The last time I went outside, I got asked for a cigarette. If that wasn't enough, I also got asked for the time of day after I was unable to dig up an extra smoke. I guess walking with your head down draws attention. It's been eight days since then. Wait, has it been eight days? Anyway, that'll teach me to leave my apartment again. The noise of the city grows muffled as I shuffle down the alley way toward the back entrance of my building. I must avoid the masses. I can listen from the window with a safe distance. You see, I'd much rather hear the faint sounds of the streets from my apartment buried in a belly of brick. It becomes like the buzzing of ultra violet lights. The hymns of a big city. I knew there was a reason I chose this place. It's got character. Well, I'm the only character. Definitely not much of a bachelor's pad. Indeed not! Thankfully, I bought a bag of bran flakes or I would have nothing to snack on. Three handfuls a day. Is the toilet running? A soloist has entered my daily theme music in the form of dripping water. It reminds me. Once before , in the middle of the night, I heard dripping from the bathroom. I got up to stifle the sound if I could. It wasn't loud but it disrupted the rhythm of my twilight time. Off key and out of sync. I walked into the bathroom. Blurry eyed and careless. Have you ever hit your shin against something solid unexpectedly? I did. It felt like I had been shot below the knee! I tried to absorb the pain but I cried out anyway. CURSE WORD! Why not, I doubt anyone's listening. Ow everyone! There was a girl that I dated briefly who was a makeup artist. That line of work sounded very intriguing to me. She seemed very passionate about it. Always lightly dusted in some kind of facial applicant. She gave me a hug once and a cloud of powder puffed out as I patted her back. The patting turned into me wiping the dust off of her. It was like she had sheet rocked an entire house by herself or someone put baby powder in her blow dryer. She showed me several different photographs of different subjects with various styles of makeup. Before too long I started wondering if anyone in these pictures was still alive. In the pictures some of them looked dead. I went ahead and submitted that she had talent. Then, another thing came over me while flipping through the photos of these made up people. What if this girl uses her own face to practice her makeup skills? Not a crazy notion. What if we started to live together? What if I went stumbling into the bathroom and she was making herself up in front of the mirror? I walk in on what was otherwise a normal Monday to her face painted like Joan Crawford or Bozo! HOLY HELL! That has potential for horror written all over it. It would be very hard to get used to. I started to wonder what kind of past leads you to a career as a makeup artist? What made her make faces? Well, it didn't work out. I think of her often when I hear the drips. Maybe I should call the landlord to see if he can fix the problem in the bathroom? Bad idea. I probably shouldn't call anyone. If I start making calls, it will open the floodgates for interaction. I'm not making the first move. I'm getting thirsty and it's getting to be that time. I should go to the store for some essentials. I need more water. Water to wash it down. Not today, though. Not yet. It's too soon. Maybe Tuesday.