He had always enjoyed the rain. The cool drops sliding over his freshly shaven skull, The wetness on the back of his neck. He would walk for hours at night. Silently staring into the lit up houses trying to imagine what it would feel like to live in the rooms he saw.
The rooms with burning candles and the rooms with multicolored Tiffany lamps and the rooms with plants and the rooms with giant framed paintings on the walls and the rooms with bunk beds and the rooms with fish tanks. And if he did live there, would he have a wife, kids, a dog? Would he get to know neighbours on the street? Would he have them over for roast chicken, a slice of key lime pie? Would there be conversation over the back fence line or cold beer on the cobblestone patio? Maybe, just maybe, should his neighbours be older, perhaps they would need help shoveling snow off their driveway? Would he offer to run something to the dump the next time he was going; something the garbage men don’t take. Would he gather mail and feed the cat when his neighbors were out of town? Would he watch the arborists for 3 days as they cut down the magestic Norwegian oak in his neighbours yard that was full of hollows.
Would he would fight with his neighbour over the small patch of grass between their houses that he would damage waterproofing to his basement? Would his neighbor be an angry, cold-hearted octogenarian. Would the relationship devolve to the point of all communication ceased, except when they would tell each other to go fuck themself?
John's Writing 