Felix opened his eyes slowly, they were heavy with sleep and cold. He pulled the Daily Post over his chest attempting to warm himself. Felix lay on his back facing the domed ceiling of the tunnel in which he lived. By the darkness of the night, Felix estimated the time to be about half past midnight, one learns these things after living outside for years. He closed his eyes for the twentieth time that night, and as he drifted off to sleep he listened closely to the incessant dripping of water from the ceiling into a puddle below. A rat scampered across Felix's toes, yet he did not flinch. Felix had become accustomed to sharing his home with the lovely little creatures.
About an hour later, Felix awoke to a sound he did not recognize. He sat upright and looked around, however it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the dark. When finally Felix was able to see, he turned around and with a look of confusion noticed a man sitting on a ledge staring at him with a mysterious smirk on his face. The man was not exceptionally interesting or unique. He was of average height, average weight, and looked to be about about 40. He had brown hair and from what Felix could tell in the darkness of the tunnel he had brown eyes. The only remarkable thing about this man was the smug look and devilish gleam in his eyes as he inspected Felix.
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I am freezing. My toes and fingers go first. When the thermometer drops to where I can't even turn on the electric stove for the numbness of my hands, I have to leave the flat. I didn't think it would be as cold here as back home, but the wind blowing off the lake gives me chills.
I can't clasp Jojo's leash, and we finally descend the stairs to the street without it. It's late and the clouds leftover from the heavy snow transform the moon's glow into an opaque shadow. The only light on Rouse pours around the corner from the picture window of the bar. I walk faster, trying to regain the feeling in my extremities, and Jojo trots to keep up.
We pass the bus stop, but a crumpled figure captures my attention. I apprehensively take a step towards the thing hunched against the bent sign. Jojo bounds forward, barking. I'm afraid he'll disturb the whole neighborhood, and I call for him to stop. The figure stirs as if my shouts have startled it, but Jojo's incessant licks don't seem to phase the figure, which I now notice is a man much taller than I. We awkwardly make eye contact as I stumble backwards, regretting taking a walk this evening. As I half walk, half jog to the back of the laundromat and my frozen fingers fumble at the deadbolt and double lock, I am not so sure I should have avoided the man. I glance over my shoulder to where he sat, now a beckoning patch of sidewalk that could have meant a break in my monotonous routine. I haven't talked to anyone in four days now besides Jojo. And I'm freezing.
"You want me to brush yo hair?" The little girl handed me a dollar bill and a dime sitting perfectly on the top of George Washington's head. The little girl's nose and cheeks were speckled with freckles the size of peanuts. Her blond curly hair lay matted against her yellow jacket. The rest of her hair was tied in a bow in the back and a few strands curled over her forehead. Without answering my question. The girl looked down, grabbed her green and pink spiraled kite and ran out of the store. The greeting bell clanged as she let the door fly back. Three times this little girl came to my shop looking for five minutes and then leaving dissatisfied with my selection of kites. I had made the green and pink spiraled kite for the blond girl the night before. Trying each night to please her with a new pattern. I finally found her liking. The little girl's blue eyes never looked my way.
Suddenly out of the corner of my eye I saw him The curly golden locks passing by the window of my shop. I squeaked and ducked below the counter. Grabbing a shawl I threw it over my head so as to conceal my self as a Muslim woman. I stood up as though I had been picking up some change off the floor and placed my elbow on the counter. I quickly took my elbow down realizing that he stood outside. This was the third time he passed my window and the third time he stood looking at the newspaper bin. Though shaken, I took my chance for the third time to look at him. His curly golden locks were speckled with white snow and his green cotton jacket pulled tightly upon his muscular body. He smiled to himself and his freckles lifted. “Oh!” I whispered. He turned and left without buying a newspaper or entering my shop. "Aaah." I breathed relieved. Slowly, I slid the green silk shawl off of my black silky hair.
About an hour later a man walked by. His hair was matted not unlike the little girl’s and his face was speckled, not with freckles, but with dirt. And then I noticed, he wore the same green jacket the man with the golden curly locks wore. surprised by my assertiveness, I ran to the door and pushed it open. The greeting bell clanging, I yelled. “Where you get that jacket man?” Then yelled louder, “Where you get that jacket?!” I never got an answer for at that moment, the shop became dark, the freezer stopped and the heater’s buzzing winded down to silence.
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