Underwood

Apathetic

Photo by SB

Underwood
SB

Yesterday I watched you pack the car looking down from my kitchen window. You shifted a suitcase to one side of the trunk, then to the other side, and finally decided to keep it in the middle and upright to split your trunk into two. You then walked inside your front door again and stayed there for a few minutes, giving me time to refill my coffee.

A few hours earlier, Ron left the house earlier than his usual 7am looking ragged, but dressed for work. I sipped my first taste of coffee remembering when I met both of you in your front yard. You both were pleasant. Ron was overly enthused to meet the neighbors and settle in. While he talked about his plans to plant roses under the front windows, you gazed down the street with your eyes half closed either looking for a delivery or maybe remembering something you forgot.

Next you came out with a box I recognized instantly. It was the old Underwood portable typewriter that you bought at my yard sale. My grand dad used it to write small dirty humorous haikus and leave them around for people to discover. He thought they were much more high-brow than a dirty limerick due to their 5-7-5 nature and restraint for words. You laughed at that story and wanted to pay the full asking price of $15 for it. I would have taken $5. I made sure the extra ribbons were included. When I asked you what you wanted to type, you answered, "What ever the snappy little letter arms pull out of me." I thought you were kidding, but you didn't even look me in the eyes when you said it. You just looked down the street. A few days later, you came over and dropped off an envelope with a scrap of paper in it. It was one of grandpa's haikus that you found in the bottom of the typewriter case. I hope you found it funny.

I started to turn away when I saw Ron pull up in his car. He walked over to you by the trunk of yours as you tucked the typewriter and a pillow by the suitcase. He rested his hand on the opened trunk lid and said something. He looked worn as if he had been planning a funeral for a loved one. His skin pale and hanging loosely as he tried to talk to you. I wondered why you did not look at him when you talked. You just looked down the street.

He closed the trunk and put his hand on your shoulder and you held it for a moment before letting it go. He looked toward the roses and you got into the car. I could hear you start it like you did every time you went out, over-revving the engine. You slowly backed out, and drove down the road that you had envisioned doing so many times before.


Inspired by the NPR contest, The Three-Minute Fiction.