sunday was almost done for. and the strange man just came back from the laundromat. outside the window, the moon hanged swollen in the pale, early evening sky.
i was about to leave myself. i was looking for my sneakers and the strange man pointed to them lying under the bed.
as i put them on, it just occurred to me. "why on earth do we have tongues on our shoes? they can't speak, can they?" he just shook his head and started hanging his collared shirts and denims.
i collected my my phone, my keys, my ipod and stuffed them inside my messenger bag and i thought this thing between the strange man and i, this is not going to work. he, there, not talking. i, here, brimming, swollen with words.
loudly, i said goodbye, hoping to get a reward, perhaps, for the courtesy. he walked up to me, then stopped as if shamed by what he planned to do. then he just said, "later."
he went back to arranging his cotton tees in the pull-out clothes drawers. as i walked to the door, i saw him folding my shirts, the ratty ones i've been using during my sleepovers. he cleared a space in the drawers and stacked them in a neat row beside his.
