Brass / stories / 2006 / Crack

Richard peered steadfastly into the sidewalk. It seemed barren somehow. As if a robber had broken in the middle of the night and swiped it of its character. The ridges speckled its plain face, smoothing in and out of a multitude of wrinkled pores.

A squint broke out over the ridge of Richard’s face. It was as if were dancing with a perplexing notion, waning in and out of tepid consciousness.

Poor Richard.

What did he lose this time?

Peering deeper into the sidewalk, his gaze grew more intent, as if a deep mystery of the universe tickled the front of his mind.

The sidewalk just sat there. That’s what sidewalks do.

Richard’s perplexity expanded. If his mind’s eye could draw a circle it would have been prevalent. A deep circle coaxing back and forth in the night sky and falling deep into his inner being. Long and narrow, the problem would solve itself along the troubling circle and twisting parabolas.

Still, there was something about that sidewalk. Richard’s cat-like gaze could only make one wonder if at some point all of reality would focus with him at that point in the sidewalk.

That one solitary point.

Point point point.

A certain glaze washed over the tips of his eyes. Washed, as if littered with brushed die and frozen turkey.

It was as if, somehow, Richard could make sense of the sidewalk and its laughter. It’s uncontrollable and unyielding laughter.

Try as he might, he couldn’t see what that fucking sidewalk was laughing at.