a sweep, a phone call and a sparrow.
The boat is taking on a lot of water at the moment, but the storm’s nearly over. Soon there’ll be sugar cane cocktails over garnished by a fraudulent professor.
He smokes in the courtyard and looks down as a resting state. Not believing enough to go to a chiropractor, and yet believing too much in the discourse of masculinity to stretch. He reads for pleasure and yet will not admit to the gratitude. A dictionary is a tool, not an object. He likely shops at whole foods, as a reaction to a comment once made on trader joes.
“It's sketchy! There’s no do-gooders in a tj's!”
He takes his time in this courtyard, caring to omit the nervous ashing of his cigarette that kills it faster. Short haired, trim faced, and lean bodied, Tim faces away from the center, on a platform raised above the thoroughfare. To his left is a collection of poplars, uninhabited by the spring sparrows. Many butts and leaves are dusted away to maintain this appearance; the illusion of natural order, but a manicure is not fake, it's just pretty. Sound does not exist in this courtyard however, just noise. Maybe on an agoraphobic-friendly holiday, but not year-round. The noise during Tim’s cigarette comes from a sweep, a phone call and a sparrow.
The sweep, a large man from a small town, named cat (like meow). The maintenance-curation of the yard is solely put upon him, and he struggles little. Taught from a young age the difference between a pine and a fur, and later learned the way of trimming bonsai, cat is manageable. By the time Tim’s cigarette is up, cat has gone to the shed, forgotten why, returned to the courtyard, and remembered once again that a child has thrown up next to the poplars. The child has stood next to the puddle for long enough now that they realize that wind is currents, and can feel the difference between ambient and wind temperature. (it's more noticeable on the east coast.) cat’s heavyweight broom moves and soaks the liquid until it is all inside, deep inside, a bin. The child then moves, returning and continuing to pester their mother. She is aging, apparently, and has two new wrinkles since entering the courtyard. Unable to multitask, she took hours to study in highschool, never having enough time to “study” with a boy. College came and went, and when fashion trended in her favour she soon became pregnant. Never learning the skill, she stands awkwardly, on the phone, with a doctor, for her child. Nothing is seriously wrong with them, but that is always the way with doctors. The mother has not and will not realize that the child has thrown up, and will only become anywhere near cognizant much later, while doing laundry. cat returns to the shed, emptying the bins later that day. Tim feels feeble in life, but stronger now he rested. The mother and child have forgotten about this courtyard, and the currents of the wind. Spring is soon, and the sparrows will come again.