Winter Street (Fiction)

Kyle shuts his front door, his face now touches the cool November breeze. He taps his front pocket to assure himself his keys are there. He taps it again, they jingle. It occurs to Kyle this is a little obsessive-compulsive,  but if it means not getting locked out again, then so be it.

Kyle casually walks down the salt-dusted sidewalk, it's 11am, and he notices the stirring life around him.  A brown terrier, connected to a black leash held by an older man approaches Kyle. Kyle looks at the dog, smiling, then looks up at the man, as if approving of the happy dog. The man makes eye contact with Kyle, then looks down at the dog, continues to walking past Kyle, as if through him.

It's cold out, Kyle can see his breath, and because he's so bundled up, can hear himself breathing, like a struggling engine sputtering in the cold. He waits for the stoplight, sees a Street Wise vendor across the street. "Street Wise, Street Wise," the vendor yells, suddenly making eye contact with Kyle, and yells Street Wise again, looking right at Kyle, but not directing the solicitation at him. The light changes, the walk signal illuminates, and Kyle begins to walk. He sees himself as a streetcar for a moment; with a metal pole on his head connected to wires above him, directing him where to move. Kyle glances to his left. at one of the cars at the stoplight, unable to see the passengers cause of the glare. He wonders why they are out driving now. Are they off work, he thinks. Vacation?

He crosses the street, to the following corner, and opens the door to the dry cleaners. Chimes jingle on the door. An Asian lady appears from the forest of clothing. Hello, she says, Kyle, still feeling like he's a street car, says hello back, reaches in his pant pocket for a pink ticket, and hands it to the lady. She enters the forest again before reemerging with a plastic-covered grey sports coat. She removes it from the plastic and the hanger, and hands it to Kyle. He stares at it for a second, then takes his coat off, sets it on the counter, grabs the jacket, puts it on, and stands up on a platform, in front of a three-sided mirror. He stands for a while, looking at himself in the silence of the store, at first noticing the jacket, then assessing himself as a whole.

It's okay, she asks. Yes, Kyle says, losing the staring contest with the mirror. He steps off the platform, takes off the jacket, puts on his winter coat. The lady takes his credit card and puts the jacket back on the hanger, in the plastic.

Kyle swings the hanger over his shoulder as he leaves the cleaners. He heads back home in the cold, figuring it's about time to dry the laundry.