My Neighbor Has a Typewriter.

Red shoes man is back. I am giddy. The familiarity of him is comforting, and yet recognizing him also makes me feel stalkerish. I want to shout down to him, "Are those your only shoes sir?"

If so, they are a good pair to have. People will remember you.

A drunk couple gets off the train. She makes him stop walking, though it seems he just wants to get home. She pulls him to her and kiss-rapes his face for an extended period of time. He doesn't seem to mind.

She stumbles away but doesn’t see where the platform drops off. She’s down. Drunk girl down. Oh god, hopefully the train is not coming. He tries to help her up but she wants to rest. They both stand in the middle of the tracks. This is like an old Western film. Oh good, they’re making it to train-free ground now.

It is cold enough to warrant a sweater tonight, warm enough not to need socks.

Wait, could that be true? I hear a typewriter noise coming from the open window of the neighbor I’ve only met once, when he stumbled out onto his balcony in his boxer shorts one morning, squinting in the bright sun and not looking at me only feet away from him. He muttered “Jesus” under his breath -- in exasperation, not prayer -- before going back inside.

Of course he would have a typewriter. Probably has a record player too. And a harmonica. And he collects old wooden postcards with birds on them. And makes his own vanilla extract. He is typing his memoirs now. He's on the chapter about his mother. He hits the keys with ire. I am certain it is about this mother.

A man who looks like a cross between Santa and Jesus carries a sleeping mat on his back, but he’s not homeless. I’m not sure why I can tell this for sure, but I can. He is obviously just a wayward traveler. Or, more likely, it is a new type of yoga mat that I don’t know about yet. It’s made out of recycled bark and cocoa beans. Mine is pink. Obviously.

Now my foot is asleep underneath me. A sign that I’ve sat out here long enough. Some day, I will buy a chair and this won’t happen. I also won’t risk death. Something tells me I’ll still find my way onto this ledge now and again though.