Curtains

The city is never quiet. Windows thrown open to counteract overzealous radiators let in incessant noise, the slap-slap of joggers, the grumble of wheezing trucks, the shriek of distant sirens wending through traffic, the caterwaul of vagrants bemoaning fate—all adding a throbbing life to the heavy atmosphere. Caves of steel and brick and concrete, lurking hulks feeding on tears and joy, on beating hearts and humming minds, vicarious testament to the need to live forever.
A gust of wind billows a curtain; a moth flutters toward the light, the one irresistible mainstay in its tumultuous life, a promise of…something unfathomable. A dozen tea kettles scream. A hundred babies wail. A thousand night-shift alarm clocks wait in silence. It’s the gloaming, a time of magic for some, work for others, and just another hour ticking by for most.
There’s no way to know the approach of a life-changing moment. No way to calculate a point of no return. There is no white light, no paragraph break, no director’s cut. Nothing but a constant medias res, as we go dancing, shuffling, running, tiptoeing, and stumbling blindly through an existence which makes sense only because our scattered neurons follow the paths of habit, laid out because, without a pattern, without our self-scripted ego dreams, there is nothing—only the chaos of everything. No beginning, no end, and barely a middle.
From the window, the chirp of a sparrow, triumphant in the discovery of a morsel, the shaky promise of another day or two. The whistle of wind through an alley. The rustle of today’s newspaper, archived and forgotten.
Footsteps on the sidewalk, the drone of a hybrid engine. A cough. The friction scuff of tires locking over pavement, a sharp hiss of drawn-in breath. (…!...) The slow-motion curl of a wood shaving, tumbling free of the stick and falling toward the fire. Asphalt and rubber, molecules scrambling together, daring to resist. (No—!) A streak of black on white crosswalk paint, just slightly smoother than blacktop. A chain of reactions. The window lets in the night, a multitude of stories, sounds, smells. (Oh god, please don’t––!) shhtKRCK!
Sound amplified by savage significance, a nightmare crunch rooted in memory and not-quite-captured by movie soundtracks or jumbled letters. (Oh my GOD! Please no…) From behind screen windows, hearts pound, stomachs fall. Trembling lips parted. A dozen breaths bated. A hundred ears strained. A thousand years crawling by (Oh my baby! Oh god no…) a car door opens (What did you do? God what did you DO!) frantic strangled apology and a little girl crying (Oh my GOD my BABY!) delirious 911 call, street names and a little girl crying (Please, please, hurry, my daughter’s been hit…) flashing lights, uncountable heart-choked necks craning toward windows and a little girl crying (We were in the CROSSwalk you fucking asshole!) (What happened!?) I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m sorry so so sorry please I’m sorry (Where does it hurt baby? Oh my GOD!) blue lights skitter against brick walls, reflecting willy nilly off glass windows and a little girl crying. Her hysterical mother, stomping around, arms in the air, screaming and cursing, and her little girl crying, traumatized and needing calm, safety, love, a sturdy embrace, sitting on a cold stone stoop without her mother’s arms to keep out the chill, a little girl crying who needs to be told It’ll Be Okay, Baby, You’ll Be Fine, Love, swathed instead by an infectious litany of panic and fear.
Windows stealthily slish shut, closing off the scene, private now and none of our business. Blue lights bathe family rooms, kitchens, dens, hallways, but can’t compete with televisions. Can’t compete with post-climax voyeuristic embarrassment. Can’t compete with It’ll Never Happen To Me, fading already into memory and vague silent promises to be more careful. Even for those three, mother, daughter, driver, the moment will deteriorate, filed away as a Count Your Lucky Stars, joining the infinite stored experiences that mold and define and lead to…what?