Molding
By Miranda Williams
I cannot be the type of woman who cries, so when I move into the new apartment—the one without a cat, without everything in pairs, without another’s noise—I pick up running. My shoes are bright pink. Neon. I want my neighbors to look at them and smile and think she’s not afraid to make big decisions; she’s not afraid to take action. Because I’m not. I don’t wear a shirt over my sports bra.
Mostly, I like to run because of the weed killer. They spray the whole complex on Friday mornings. Early, so no one can know they were there. Blue spots of chemical pop up in the rocks, the grass, the sidewalk cracks. I pretend it’s mold. The earth is a giant loaf of bread. Expired. Molding. Maybe tomorrow it’ll start breaking to pieces. Dusting outer-space in a carb-filled snow.
I run in the mornings, so everything is the same: the two sisters from next door race to the bus stop, Sandra snips at her roses, I let the three college boys look at me. After that, I pass the man in apartment 23b who sits on his balcony all morning. He’s old with skin like a wadded napkin and hair springs from his scalp in thin, oily slivers. I imagine he smells like spoiled milk left on the counter or maybe Bengay. His whole body quivers when he breathes. He sits and stares into the sun. Sometimes, the neighbors talk about him. Sometimes, I think he’s dead.
But today, he stands up. He’s tall but hunched and he waves. Smiles. It’s short. More like a salute. Comrades. I stop. My lungs twist like used up tubes of toothpaste. I can’t wave back. My eyes dart from wall to wall to plant to grass to car to window to mold. But there is only me. I run faster, hoping to break the bread, the rotting parts, and sink. Air fizzles out until it’s gone. When I loop back to my place, my calves pulse. Weezing. Sweating. Burning.
The sprinklers in the grass are on, washing off the blue. It all puddles in the sidewalk edge. An ocean of twigs, soil, and blackberry color. I want to yell. Instead, I walk to the center and sit. The ground is spongy. Soft. Droplets hit my skin and roll. I lay down. Finger the sopping grass. Let the water cover me.
THE END