The sun sets, slowly disappearing beneath the cityscape as the night rises to replace it. Midnight. A door closes softly behind The Man. He is tall, wearing a trench coat and a hat. A white shirt tucked neatly into black slacks. He is clean and crisp. A far cry from this damp, dark city. His dress shoes clack loudly, echoing in the quiet night, but The Man knows better than to think no one else is up at this time as He walks along the dirty sidewalk. This is His routine. At midnight exactly, He exits the apartment building and takes an hour-long walk. He enjoys observing the city and all its mysteries through the simple act of walking and watching.
Not much is known about the city at night. It is dark, yes, but beyond that, only those awake see the true colors that the night brings forth. The loud screech of a cat cuts through the silence. A quick peek down an alley reveals to Him two cats. They’re fighting. ”Probably a turf war,” He thinks, “or some other insignificant occasion. They’re cats. What could they possibly have to fight about?” He keeps walking.
This is all normal. A car goes by, then a stray dog. Few people are out and those who are ignore Him. This is all normal. Voices sound off to His left. He looks. No one is there. He looks up. He can’t see the people or hear what they’re saying clearly, but He can see their shadows. It looks like they’re arguing. The Man can only hear snippets of their conversation. It seems like it’s about money. Or perhaps a lovers' spat? Either way, He brushes it off and continues. He won’t allow anything or anyone to ruin His night.
He can hear the drips falling off of pipes and hitting the ever growing puddles below them. A rustle of a bag and then a thump. The sound of someone throwing out their trash. “Reminder to self,” He thinks, “take out the trash tomorrow.” It’s starting to be a bit much in His small apartment. He should have taken it out a few days ago, but He got caught up doing other tasks. It’s no excuse, but what else could He say?
He passes a street corner, turning to walk along the river. There are more people out here. Mainly homeless people and criminals. And The Man. A scratchy voice and the sound of coins in a can reach His ears. A homeless person asking for change. He debates for a while as He’s slowly approaching them. Already having made up His mind, His fingers are already opening a wallet. A few coins hit the bottom of the old can, clinking against the other couple coins. The interaction doesn’t take more than a couple seconds.
He’s reached the end of His route and turns around. Rustling in a side street across the road catches His attention. He peers into the darkness, just barely able to make out the form of a person carrying -- no, dragging, something towards a dumpster. He takes off His coat and lays it over His arm. He thinks He sees a weapon of sorts, with something red dripping off of it. It’s definitely suspicious. But it’s also not something He can confirm, so calling the police could be pointless. He brushes it off and continues home.
The Man has to cross a park to return back to the building. A person catches His eye. They are standing in front of an easel with a street lamp positioned over their head. Paint on their hands and the brush and the canvas. This is a surprise. There has never been anyone standing in the park when He returns. A closer glimpse displays the painter's talent. Colors dance and swirl together forming a small piece of beauty. Beauty that one certainly can’t find occurring naturally in this gritty place. The bright colors juxtaposed against the dark night and dirty landscape almost make a mockery of what could be. Red becomes gold becomes the bluest blue He has ever seen. They form a landscape of the city. It transforms the dark into a paradise. A dream even.
The apartment building grows ever nearer. The witching hour is almost over. He walks up the steps, His image exactly the same with the exception of the coat over His arm. Not a single piece out of place. The Man’s shoe laces are still tied as tightly, His shirt still unwrinkled. There are still hours before the city even begins to wake up. Then He takes one last glance. Possibilities flicker through His mind. A decision is made. His hand drops from the doorknob. He turns away and takes off in a new direction from where He usually starts. The routine is broken.
Not much is known about the city at night. It is dark, yes, but beyond that, only those awake see the true colors that the night brings forth. The loud screech of a cat cuts through the silence. A quick peek down an alley reveals to Him two cats. They’re fighting. ”Probably a turf war,” He thinks, “or some other insignificant occasion. They’re cats. What could they possibly have to fight about?” He keeps walking.
This is all normal. A car goes by, then a stray dog. Few people are out and those who are ignore Him. This is all normal. Voices sound off to His left. He looks. No one is there. He looks up. He can’t see the people or hear what they’re saying clearly, but He can see their shadows. It looks like they’re arguing. The Man can only hear snippets of their conversation. It seems like it’s about money. Or perhaps a lovers' spat? Either way, He brushes it off and continues. He won’t allow anything or anyone to ruin His night.
He can hear the drips falling off of pipes and hitting the ever growing puddles below them. A rustle of a bag and then a thump. The sound of someone throwing out their trash. “Reminder to self,” He thinks, “take out the trash tomorrow.” It’s starting to be a bit much in His small apartment. He should have taken it out a few days ago, but He got caught up doing other tasks. It’s no excuse, but what else could He say?
He passes a street corner, turning to walk along the river. There are more people out here. Mainly homeless people and criminals. And The Man. A scratchy voice and the sound of coins in a can reach His ears. A homeless person asking for change. He debates for a while as He’s slowly approaching them. Already having made up His mind, His fingers are already opening a wallet. A few coins hit the bottom of the old can, clinking against the other couple coins. The interaction doesn’t take more than a couple seconds.
He’s reached the end of His route and turns around. Rustling in a side street across the road catches His attention. He peers into the darkness, just barely able to make out the form of a person carrying -- no, dragging, something towards a dumpster. He takes off His coat and lays it over His arm. He thinks He sees a weapon of sorts, with something red dripping off of it. It’s definitely suspicious. But it’s also not something He can confirm, so calling the police could be pointless. He brushes it off and continues home.
The Man has to cross a park to return back to the building. A person catches His eye. They are standing in front of an easel with a street lamp positioned over their head. Paint on their hands and the brush and the canvas. This is a surprise. There has never been anyone standing in the park when He returns. A closer glimpse displays the painter's talent. Colors dance and swirl together forming a small piece of beauty. Beauty that one certainly can’t find occurring naturally in this gritty place. The bright colors juxtaposed against the dark night and dirty landscape almost make a mockery of what could be. Red becomes gold becomes the bluest blue He has ever seen. They form a landscape of the city. It transforms the dark into a paradise. A dream even.
The apartment building grows ever nearer. The witching hour is almost over. He walks up the steps, His image exactly the same with the exception of the coat over His arm. Not a single piece out of place. The Man’s shoe laces are still tied as tightly, His shirt still unwrinkled. There are still hours before the city even begins to wake up. Then He takes one last glance. Possibilities flicker through His mind. A decision is made. His hand drops from the doorknob. He turns away and takes off in a new direction from where He usually starts. The routine is broken.