#miiroul

He takes a small leap off the bus: a thud, then a short scratch. The running shoe on his right foot grinds against the gravel sidewalk before it finds grip and falls behind a thin cloud of dust. Then, the left foot follows. But without the weight of his body, there is no further thud, no further dust, no further fanfare. A perfect performance, before he realizes he had forgotten to thank the bus driver. He readjusts the straps on his backpack.

Between him and his destination sits a quaint neighbourhood. It had been laid out in a grid of small roads and roundabouts between two major streets. As he turns and steps into one of its narrower roads, he gets a peek at the street ahead of him where cars regularly whiz by. Behind him oozes the sporadic buzz of traffic, which to his surprise lasts for but a few steps. Afterwards, there is the sound of silence. The rules of his environment had changed: a concrete path, a constant shade, and a continual stillness which made the air feel heavy. His eardrums sense the change in air pressure. The birds’ chirpings rescue him.

On the other side of the road are houses in a single file. He sees the same different gardens, the same different doors, the same different roofs. Unique to all of them are pairs of diamond-shaped windows on their second floors. This is present in all but one of the houses, which instead has rectangular windows bowing under the dormer roof and surrounded by a fresher coat of paint. On their sidewalks are bins and bags in a single file. Blue and yellow for recycling, speakers of their houses. The first one is nearly empty, with a milk carton thrown in, which lies on its side near the middle of the bin at an odd angle. The second is full of brown beer bottles. They are neatly organized into a grid of rows and columns between the longer edges, with the cardboard box they likely came in planted beside them and squarely folded. The third has some newspapers in it, or perhaps magazines, pamphlets, brochures. It might also be a number of other things.