Able Standing

Her eyes responded, acute and grave, like a pendulum motionless in mid stroke. Black. Jet black. The color of her hair. I withdrew as might a lion in the battle for the pack, only for a pulse, a shift of weight to regain composure.

“Able,” she spoke softly.

‘Able’ she says often, and it places me on air. Her voice a blessing, a solemn truth, rings for days in my mind: playing, pulsing at the rhythm of her body, my body, together, one. I had lost indeed, a shadow glimpsed is a light candor, procured delicately as like dissolves like, as love dissolves mind.

She placed her hand on my left thigh. Her right cheek rose to catch the weight of her smile. I smiled. A tear formed in her left eye. She gently rocked towards me while the tear perched quivering—the sole star to escape from the galaxy—and fro.

Be sure not to wash away your beauty. I told her.

And fro.

“Come now.”

I shied away.

“Come, Able.”

I sighed.

Her hand removed from my thigh. With her weight over her knees, her eyes reached upward—waiting for me to grab hold. The tear had defeated the smile. And fro, as her hands now rested on her own thighs, eyes fixed anew on the horizon. I withdrew, as might a lion in the battle for his pack, stunned, ambiguous—decided. Blood pulsing, once again I heard my name. I leaned forward to catch the tear as he fell from her face. She faced me. The waves thundered, paced atthe opaqueness of intention.

Her gaze fixed now on a pair of pelicans nearby. Happy pelicans. The sun rose a moment earlier to grant the morning dew’s wish to fly, and, now rest near the midpoint of her eye—matted, delicate—glazed in a fluid that would dissipate far sooner than the sun would ever stand a chance to make the acquaintance. Her hands remained on her own knees as I leaned forward to catch the tear falling from her cheek.

Sometimes the world spins faster than normal. I seldom notice as my simple mind can hardly interpret the nuances in such complexity. The sun now rest on the meridian of her iris. Jet black. The universe houses such stars as well. She then trapped the sun in, allowing her warmth to rest—abstract, delighted. A victim to every curve, I traced her skin as a sunflower the sky, every moment of light observed, and not a shadow to be found.

I spoke.

As a tear snuck from her left eye, I reached forward. Her lips rose in a curve of such brightness they could have been the crescent moon whom lights the midnight sky. The tear fell through my fingers, my hand still, though my heart raced as did my glance to catch him, as he landed gracefully in the grass, a sodium lake—a sea rather—for a small passer-by. I placed the others with him as her hand once again graced my thigh. My head arose, as stands a lion’s.

The Fisherman’s Son

The average person, from my own observation, is .75 meters wide. This accounts for the brunt of the torso and the range of motion allowed for the standard handbag filled with the most typical of necessities: tissues, wallet, flask of rum, makeup and keys; or the average range of motion in hand gestures of a standard conversation, not including conversations on the subjects of Egyptian pyramids or solar measurements.

The average space between persons stands between .25 meters to maintain a comfortable friendly environment and .3 meters to avoid from distracting another’s thoughts.

I had the simple task of purchasing a loaf of bread in the morning. A venture of two blocks which averages completion in under five to ten minutes. The city clock chimed twelve bells from it’s location four blocks to the west—lunch hour—though nobody really seems to eat, only scamper between the bank and the gift shop to accomplish the needed three and a half things (I’m guessing) to be done in this timeframe.

Walking north on Main Street you have on your left hand side a row of businesses such as Adel’s Bookstore, a narrow place about 40 meters in depth, The Unpretentious Café, and Comfortable Spires, a dodgy wire furniture store with the softest carpet in the world. Interwoven with art displays and more unpretentious cafés, the street continues. Often the sidewalk erupts in a series of fissures or satisfactory fix-it jobs. On the right, the street-hand side, nearly every 20 meters is a tree—most commonly a green one. At the end of a block, in no particular sequence that I can determine, you find phone cabins, sometimes in groups of three, sometimes two, sometimes aside another group of three, or two.

I would guess the sidewalk to span a width of nearly 6 meters at its widest. As you reach the portions with trees, which are positioned a good meter from the curb, and whose planters take another .5 meters, at times the space for foot traffic is reduced to a mere 4.5 meters.

This leaves room for four people to fit comfortable across the standard sidewalk—preferably, two in each direction. I have not included the fact that when there are no trees five people could fit contently because every 20 meters a decision would be forced upon conversing parties of who it is to step free from the group so a clean pass can be made.

As I completed crossing the street, in transition to block two, a group three wide, walking at the pace of a deep conversation on the practical applications of medieval clockwork, turned the corner and established themselves in front of me. Nearly stopping at times to add inflections and gestures to their stories, they carried on the same direction as I.

I proceeded to pass on the left, though as I made the motion to do so a man about 1.2 meters wide stepped out of the cigar shop we were passing and forced me to reduce my speed and resume my pace, once again on my side of the sidewalk. Once we had passed the shop I picked up the pace again to once again pass on the left. As I gained position in the 2 meters of free space I took notice of a pair of elderly women approaching in the opposite direction—frail ladies, both about .75 meters wide with their handbags, moving at the pace of a Sunday Mass. Not wanting to frighten or deter any thoughts of their grandchildren, I once again retreated to my position behind the three.

I patiently awaited an opportunity to pass though the stream of foot traffic to the south was immeasurable: a couple hand in hand of 2 meters wide, three children (And by the way, children are smaller and not included in the average width. They vary in size depending on how much their mother feeds them and usually dodge unpredictably between the trees and the street, or maintain single file lines due to institutional training—such as in school, or because they are chasing one another.), a man walking his dog of 2.5 meters width and a man eating a sandwich of 1.2 meters due to his protruding elbows. In any case, my opportunity did not arise. I looked to the right, as a child dodged a parking car and darted past me. I took my chances with the right, increasing my step-length and pursued the pass, though my plan was foiled as an approaching tree altered my lane and I lost balance and speed, ending up, once again, behind the three.

I began losing hope. I’m sure I even missed a few chances to pass, though my heart just wasn’t in it anymore. Why hadn’t they noticed me? Why hadn’t one of them taken a moment and said, “Oh, I didn’t see you there, would you like to slip by?” No, nothing, no acknowledgement, no help. At this rate I will probably perish right here, behind the three most disrespectful citizens I have ever come across.

“ Would you like to pass?”

The voice clubbed me with the ease of an angel in the wind. I noticed my palms sweating, my breathing had increased, I began re-sorting my day in my head for it had already been twenty minutes and for sure I wasn’t going to carry out my plans in the expected time. I would have to call everyone whom I scheduled to meet today and tell them I would be late. As I muttered flagrantly, I realized I had no idea what I had even come out for. I looked up quickly, ready to…

“ Would you like to pass?” The gentleman on the left repeated. His voice was soft and caring; it probably only carried the .25 meters which we stood apart from one another, though I heard it crisp and clear, with genuine affirmation. He had changed his position and rotated his body to open his stance, his hand forward as if he had opened the door and wished me to enter first.

I shook my head no.