Seven Days

Tuesday

He had lived in number 17 ever since he was able to get his own apartment, and when the girl had moved in next door, he always wondered if she noticed him, which wasn't likely. He was, in fact, one of those people who noticed everything but never got noticed.

It was a cloudy day that day, and he had decided, for almost no reason at all, to call in sick at his job, which was the cashier at one of those hippie clothing stores with wood and fairy lights everywhere, and all the clothes knitted or earth-colored, with succulents for sale on little shelves towards the back. He didn't hate the job, not at all - he enjoyed seeing all the different people that came in and learning random bits and pieces about them in the time that they browsed and bought clothes. It was just that sometimes, when the day felt like a resting day, you needed to rest.

So that was what he was doing.

He sat curled up on the windowseat looking out over the the street and the apartment parking lot. A steaming cup of black coffee was held in his left hand. He always took his coffee black - he didn't like the feel it gave your tongue if you put milk or sugar in it, and he felt like it defeated the original purpose, like sushi without the fish taste. The way it was supposed to be was the way it should.

His eyes turned to the kitchen table, like they had about six times in the past five minutes. A Polaroid photo of a slightly rusted, old blue Toyota parked in the middle of an Arizona desert was lying there.

He had always loved Polaroids, and photography in general. While digital photography was fun, it just didn't have that same nostalgic feeling as the photo actually sliding out of the camera and into your hands, where you could watch it change from white to a landscape or person or object. A truly magical process that nothing on a screen could ever capture.

After another minute, he stood, placing his coffee mug on the island next to the photo, and crossed to the other side of the room. He had painted the far wall, the living room/kitchen one, a pale blue-gray color, like storm clouds in the evening or the ocean on an overcast day. Upon that wall, he had tacked hundreds of Polaroid photos; ones of the house he used to live in, in the alpine hills of Colorado, where the aspen trees were green and surrounded by wildflowers, brilliant flame colors, or bare and ghostly in a landscape of snow. Photos of his parents, both which he missed; his sister, who hadn't answered his calls; his dogs, before they died. There were some, too, of this apartment and the town in which he lived in now, but the majority of them were from three years ago.

He had just turned nineteen, and since he'd put off leaving his parent's house for a whole year, he'd decided to boost his independence and take a road trip through most of the western states; California, Utah, Nevada, Oregon, New Mexico, and Arizona, where he'd gotten the picture of the car that was sitting on the kitchen table.

He turned back to it, and in a moment of revelation decided it was now or never.

The photo was picked up and slipped into the pocket of a well-worn denim jacket. Faded Converse were tied onto his feet, and without a chance to second-guess himself he was out the door.

It had started raining, a soft drizzle that wasn't enough to patter on the roof but just blurred the edges of anything far away, and seemed to blend sky with land. It could have been a good or bad sign, but he stood there for a minute inhaling the smell of it and decided it must be a good one.

He didn't have to walk far. Number 16 was right there. Even from right outside, he could smell the espresso beans.

He slipped the note/photo under the door.