Good things
At the far-away library: An older man in a khaki button down shirt, well into his late seventies, sat alone at a table low to the ground with lime green legs. We were in a sunny room that was kept cool from an air conditioner that blew a little too hard. He was by himself, frowning over a 1,000 piece puzzle and muttering things under his breath. His back straightened up as if to assert himself towards the challenge. Twenty minutes later when the woman with her high-school aged children who were taking a geometry test left, an old woman with a purple shirt, navy pants, and a black jacket walked in. Her glasses magnified her beady eyes and she had a bun made of thin gray hair that was neatly twisted at the top of her head. The man and this woman didn't look at each other. He walked out of the room in silence as she came in and paced around the room looking at quilts that hung on the walls. She observed the puzzle he was working on and circled the table, just pretending to look at quilts some more. She looked like she was debating something, trying not to do something. She sat down and began adding to the puzzle. Her face moved in confusion, her tongue poked the inside of her cheek as she thought about where the last pieces should be placed. Her back was shrugged over the short table, her lips pursed as she removed incorrect pieces and picked up new ones. One arm sat limply on her leg while the other moved to quickly complete the puzzle. The man sat down on a chair outside the cool room to read a newspaper.
At the gas station: A middle-aged man with long gray hair and a baseball cap showed another man who looked a few years younger than how how to jumpstart a car. The cables looked like they'd seen too much use. The man with the long gray hair looked nonchalant but excited to tell someone the small tips he'd learned over the years of jumpstarting his car one too many times.
At the close library: Every Saturday around 3:30 a man and his dog go for a walk in the small park behind the library. The man wears only plaid flannel, his dog with a short coat of light brown fur. Her ears aren’t too long, his jeans are always wrinkled. Him and his little lady walk quietly, her nose right at his ankle. She moves all dignified, he moves slow and pensively. We watch the two of them walking down the twisty pathway we usually cut across, there’s no need to walk the whole length unless you’re the man and his little lady. “She’s so perfect,” we say, “She’s so happy.”
At the market: The people behind the counter at the deli wave at me whenever I walk by and even if they don’t really like me that much, it seems like they do and it seems like someone’s told them good things about me or maybe told them I need cheering up sometimes.
