When the City Forgets
The morning did not arrive with light, but with pain. First his back made itself known, then his neck, then the cold in his fingers. He stayed sitting for another moment, the blanket pulled up to his chin, and looked at the wet pavement in front of him. Moisture had gathered beneath the cardboard. When he slid his hand under it, it felt soft and cold.
Above him, water dripped somewhere from a gutter. Not many cars were passing yet. But the night was over. Across the street, a sign hung behind the glass in the empty storefront. Opening soon. Clean red surface, white letters. Behind it, bare walls, dust on the floor, and a rolled-up tarp in the corner. Even empty, the place looked as if it would soon be needed.
He pushed the blanket off himself and slowly sat up straighter. His left leg took a little longer. Next to his shoe lay the paper cup from the evening before. He picked it up, poured out the rainwater, and pressed the soft rim back into shape with two fingers. Then he folded the blanket. Not neatly. Just enough to fasten it to the backpack.
He placed the bag between his feet and pulled the zipper open. Two pairs of socks. A piece of soap wrapped in paper. Half a pack of tissues. A charger, even though the phone had not turned on for weeks. The lighter was still there too. He no longer smoked regularly, but he still did not want to throw it away.
The street slowly filled up. First a delivery van arrived and stopped at an angle by the curb. Two crates were unloaded, metal clattered, a door slammed shut. Then the first people with coffee cups passed by, coats open, steps quick. The first glances of the morning were the shortest. They brushed across him and kept going. No one stared. No one lingered.
He knew this hour. He knew when it was better not to be lying down anymore. When sitting was still acceptable, as long as it looked like he would get moving any second. And when the first people began to be bothered by him.
Warm smells drifted over from the bakery on the corner. Grease, dough, coffee. For a moment his hand almost rose on its own toward his jacket pocket, to the place where his keys used to be. That still happened sometimes. Then he noticed it and let the hand sink again.
There had once often already been light in the kitchen at this hour. Not beautiful light. Just the dull yellow above the counter. On the table there were keys, loose change, sometimes a note he had still meant to take with him. In the sink there might still have been a cup from the night before. In winter, the heating gurgled. And often the apartment already smelled of coffee in the morning.
It had not been a special life. That was exactly why he sometimes missed it more now than he had expected. Rent. Keys. Light. A hallway he knew in the half-dark. A door clicking shut behind him. But it was not only the apartment. It was the people too. Colleagues. Familiar faces. One man who complained about the same bus every Monday. One who was always too early and already standing in front of the entrance with a coffee in hand. Sometimes a beer after work. Sometimes just a brief sentence in passing. See you tomorrow. Back then it had been a sentence like any other. Now that was exactly what something clung to.
Across the street, in front of the new shop, a man with a ring of keys appeared. He set down a bucket, unlocked the door, and pulled it inward. Shortly after, he stood in the entrance with a broom and swept together glass splinters, cigarette butts, and the dirt from the street that had gathered along the edge. The movement was practiced.
He tightened his left shoe. The lace was frayed in one spot and hard to pull through. While he was still working on it, his eyes fell on a man coming from the subway side. Dark coat, leather bag, coffee cup in his right hand. Then he saw the way he walked. Slightly bent forward, as if he was always in a hurry. Before he could properly make out the face, he knew he knew him.
The man from Monday. One of the ones who were always too early. As the other came closer, the face returned too. Workshop. Break room. Fogged-up windows. A winter morning when both of them had been early and talked about some nonsense until the shift began. The name was missing. The face was not.
He looked up before the other man reached him. The man kept walking at first. Then he slowed down. Only slightly, but still enough. His gaze slid past him, came back, and stayed there. He looked at him as if he first had to be sure. Something flickered briefly across his face. Then it was gone again.
He straightened up a little without meaning to. Not much. Just enough not to look completely lost. It could have been a greeting. A nod. A quiet well, long time no see. It would not have taken more than that. Even that would have been enough to pull him back, just for a moment.
The man lifted the cup to his mouth, even though he was not drinking. Then he went on. Not hurriedly. Not in a way that would have stood out. That was exactly what hurt. He simply kept going. After a few steps he was part of the others again. Coat, bag, coffee. Soon after, it looked as if nothing had happened.
He did not watch him for long. Instead, he took the paper cup, slipped it into the side pocket of his backpack, pulled the zipper shut, and checked once more whether it was really closed. Then once again. Next door, the broom scraped over the stone. Across the street, in front of the new shop, the cleaning continued. The man with the broom pushed the dirt together and tipped it into a dustpan. Within a few minutes, the pavement looked tidy again.
He looked once more at the sign across the street. Opening soon. The words stayed with him. Doors, shops, bars, rooms. For others, such things opened. For him, they did not.
For a moment he remembered how often he himself had once walked into places without thinking about it. Workshops, bars, offices, apartments. Doors opened, and he walked in. Back then he had barely noticed much of it. Warmth. Voices. Familiar faces. A laugh between two half-finished sentences. Someone saying, See you tomorrow.
When he finally stood up, he had to wait a moment until his left leg joined in again. Then he took the backpack and pulled it over his shoulder. In front of the new shop, the pavement was now almost clean. The worst of the dirt was gone. Only a little had still gathered down by the curb. He stood there for a moment and looked down at it.
Then he started walking, slowly, before it looked as if no one had been sitting here.
Musical Echo
Dust in the Asphalt
A door to the outside...
...behind it lies a video, waiting just for you. Whether you want to see it is entirely your choice.