The Grass Kicker

I was exhausted after a day of putting up curtains, sweeping floors and cleaning the bluish-brown ring that was caused by who-knows-what around the upstairs bathtub. But it was my (as in I pay the rent) first apartment, and I was going to do it “right”. Sitting on my bed, I let myself zone a bit as I stared out the window into the street-lamp lit darkness of my new street.

The neighborhood seemed quiet and rural, but perhaps the two are synonymous. I barely saw anyone that afternoon while unloading the rental truck, save for the nice gentleman in apartment 6A who offered to help carry boxes. I declined; after all, rural places are where serial killers live, right?

Just then one of my new neighbors appeared in the street beneath the yellow lamp, casting a shadow below his long nose and mustache. Mustaches make men look like pedophiles.

Peering through the curtains at the man I couldn’t help but become curious. It’s 11:30 at night, what could he possibly be doing? He walked along the edge of the street where it met his property, occasionally kicking a pebble from the grass into the abandoned road. For ten minutes, he walked back and forth. Back, kick a pebble, and forth.

Headlights briefly painted his jeans as it came around the corner; the man quickly started towards his house in long, giraffe-like strides trying to escape the truth that he existed and the rays reflecting off him proved he existed all alone. And as the lights faded, he returned to the spot where he had been standing and looked longingly after the vehicle.