Safety in Numbers (by James Parsons)

Through the window, the moon cast a ribbon of light diagonally across her body, revealing a shoulder, two ribs, and the curvature of a hip.  A path of skin like fresh snow beneath a streetlamp.  The smell of lilacs – her ever-present scent – invaded his nostrils.  This time mingling with sweat and the moist August air.  Yet the rest of her was veiled in storm cloud gray and grew more indiscernible despite his staring.  Sheldon had known Tatum for over a year but she seemed so vague to him, as if he were peering at her through a rain-splashed windshield, betrayed by broken wipers.  She was opaque lying there in the tousled bed linens and that made him anxious.  It occurred to him to quietly exit the room and leave her to her dreams, so he made his way out the door, down three floors, and into the silent streets.

The city pulsates like a switchboard of energy in the waking hours.  Yet, after midnight, within certain neighborhoods, it is a cloister.  The small streets can be like portals to a quainter era.  The atmosphere so different than in the daylight.  This is what he loved most about Philadelphia.  It rested.  And because of his inability to do the same, Sheldon walked.  West, on Locust, toward the river, he meandered past narrow, cobblestone back alleys.  The giant silhouette of a cargo train vanished northward toward the Art Museum.  Around a corner, a cat, like a sentry, slinked back and forth on the slender top of a property gate, and startled him.  Ahead, on a street perpendicular, two women in flowing skirts passed by on bikes that seemed too large for them; even at this hour, in the bright darkness, they looked purposeful yet carefree, as girls in skirts on bikes often do in the summer months.

Sheldon favored Fitler Square to the much bigger Rittenhouse.  Rittenhouse Square was a spectacle.  Fitler Square, at this hour, a sanctuary.  The brass ram in repose greeted him.  The bear in mid-stride paid him no mind.  He imagined them coming to life like in a child’s daydream.  He sat on a bench next to the tortoises conferring with one another.  The moonlight was still strong and it gleamed off the helmeted backs of the tortoises; the largest casting a fatherly figure in front of two attentive children.  Be patient, you’ll get there, don’t worry, it is who you are.  Sheldon began to feel at ease and the edges of his mouth curved upward forming a wry smile.  He sat and enjoyed the solitude for minutes which seemed longer.  Suddenly the drone of the southbound #12 bus on its final run grew closer and it roused him.  Above, some lonely stars shone in defiance of the city and its artificial light.  The warm air was sweet with alyssum.  It reminded him of lilacs.  He thought of Tatum.  Was she still sleeping?  Perhaps she too had left the house.

(James Parsons is a writer living in Philadelphia.  When he's not writing you can find him on his bike, running in the Wissahickon trails, or coaching on soccer fields throughout the area.  He has a master's degree in journalism from Temple University.)

Robert Drifts

Robert opens the backdoor and lets Bubba out.  The grassy backyard is extraordinarily large for a city row home.  Aged wooden fence enclosing him, Bubba can run around to his heart’s content.

As is his Saturday morning ritual, Robert ascends the rear stairs with his freshly poured cup of coffee.  He breathes heavily when he reaches the third floor and thinks of younger years when scaling the Art Museum steps would’ve felt like less work.  Easing into his most comfortable chair, purchased twenty years ago when he was a ripe twenty five year old rebel, he places the coffee mug on a table to his right and lights a cigarette.  The chair faces out the bay window protruding from the third floor’s back room, his study, and he sees a landscape his wife wouldn’t recognize.

For the best, he supposes, to replace abandoned buildings and old, empty warehouses, relics from an industrial economy long since displaced from Philadelphia to China and wherever else.  He sees the many young folks starting their Saturdays and imagines himself in their shoes, new to the neighborhood, not a care in the world, meeting his wife for the first time at Ortlieb’s on a Tuesday night.

Closing his eyes, drifting, Robert strolls with her down 2nd Street, drives while she adjusts the radio, stands beside her in their garden. . . .

Bubba barks loudly, startling his owner.  Robert re-lights the cigarette and walks downstairs to join the chocolate lab.  He lets Bubba lick remnants of coffee from his mug as he stares off into uninterrupted blue sky, trying hard to feel something other than sadness.