Really Short Fiction: "Aspirin"

Standing at the corner. Waiting. There's a lot of that in my life. Yours too, probably. Standing at corners and waiting.

Standing at the corner with a bunch of people, also on the corner and also waiting. It's cold tonight, but compared to the past few nights it is positively pleasant. Not much wind. It's been cold as hell, but there's not a lot you can do about that.

It's early on a weeknight, but it's already dark. The buildings are dark, rising above the well-lit street, and there are surprisingly few cars considering how long we've been waiting on this stupid corner for the damn light to change.

Finally. The orange hand turns into a little white guy. It always looks like Lite-Brite to me. I never remember having one of those when I was a kid, but I remember the little plastic pieces, pointy on one end and rounded on the other. Transluscent, all the colors of the rainbow; always only one. They turned up in boxes of G.I. Joes and Legos. I can't remember if we had the light box or not. It seemed to exist is some poorly-formed idea of the early 1970s, before I was born.

When did I cross the street? It always creeps me out when I go on autopilot, especially when streets filled with buses and taxis are concerned.

I'm in a crowd, so I feel safer. We're all moving in the same direction. Toward the trains. There's a security guard in a smart red jacket leaning up against the wall where the homeless guy usually sits. That's new. I wonder if he's gone. Each day I see him sitting there in his motorized wheelchair, with a begging cup and a cell phone. That always strikes me as odd. I really hope he's here. Any time he isn't here I always assume he's dead. And then I feel guilty that the first place my mind goes is the worst case scenario. He could move out of town, or take up with friends, or return to his office to write up his research on homelessness into a Pulitzer Prize-winning book. But I assume he's frozen to death somewhere. It is winter after all.

There he is. Just a few yards farther down. He's still got his cup and his phone. I'm really glad for some reason. I hear change bounce into his cup behind me.

I always mean to give him something, but it seems like I never have cash.

Oh well.

Into the station now. Will I stop and get a snack? No, not tonight. I don't want to put $1.29 onto my debit card.

Down the escalator, through the turnstile, down the stairs.

Onto the train. I manage to find a seat next to an older woman; a tourist couple stands in front of us. The doors close and the train bolts forward, lurching from side to side. The woman standing in front of us falls backwards, landing on the woman next to me. Her friend pulls her back up.

"Are you okay?" I'm not sure who I'm talking to, which is okay because no one seems to hear.

What would I have done if someone said "no?"

I don't even have any aspirin.