There are cavemen in the courtyard across the street and they have red plastic cups, coolers with wheels and handles, and at least one woman. It is hot today and they’re shirtless like me and she has long, tan legs that are probably as nice up close as from a distance and I wonder which one she sleeps beside each night. Talk is loud and arms flail just as noisily, making tight arcs and controlled, oft-practiced gestures exaggerated to emphasize muscularity the way voice volume is their vehicle for sentiment. They laugh and take sips and none of them smoke. We probably all go to the same gym, and now I don’t want to, I don’t want to anything, none of it, it all seems like it all just seems because that’s all it does and here I am with that’s all it is settling down on me again like the sun does, sweat beading to the point that I glisten like the cavemen do and one of them goes and stands in the fountain nearby to cool his sandaled feet and I place mine over the edge of the balcony and wonder if they’ll be heavy enough to pull the rest.

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.