The hardest question is always what do you want to do?
We could do anything, she says, pulling on a Peter Jackson and chasing it with Vitamin Water. Basically, we could do anything.
And thinking about that anything, you wonder why teachers said that you could do anything, knowing that, well, you couldn’t, aware that the adult world was divided up by salaries, street addresses and vacation days. They said, Light up a firework, see if I care- but we can’t open the windows: It might be loud.
You don’t have any ideas?
You consider what sound the pencil made when it ground through skin creases to highlight green eyes: How, combined with other sounds of her routine- hairdryer buzzing snare, toaster popping a percussion, coffee percolating saxophones- you might build a song.
Cars are honking down the street. A cell phone is thrown against a driver side window, critch-snapping when hitting concrete, beside the blood.
We could go for a bike ride, you say.
The imposing stance of the driver shows his guilt: Too obvious a physical defense against his mistake, an umbrella against the cyclists’ words.
A bike, we could rent one.
Great. A bike ride.
Sirens flash past us and split traffic like a stick pushing leaves in a stream. An officer works to press apart bloody drivers, belting out something baritone.
Let’s do something already, she says. Anything.*
colour byJaci Banton
words by Liam Lachance