Glimpses

He picked up his briefcase and headed toward the front door.

He never looked around his apartment. When dreams became reality, he found that thirty-seven thousand a year buys a lot less in the city. To say the apartment was drab would almost be paying it a compliment. It had been a six month home to the last fifty or so occupants. A starting place, not worthy of fixing up. As a reminder that it was temporary, cardboard boxes still remained taped shut. College textbooks, photos, bookends--they would all have their place in a home. This was just a place to sleep, shower, and pick up the mail.

The door creaked, who cares, then slammed shut.

Down the stairs, footsteps echoing. He used these four flights as his power up before hitting the world each day. The sound of his feet on the ground were a drum roll which ended when he pushed open the glass front door.

His impatience for "someday" got the best of him at times, and he then had to remind himself that eight months was really not that long. It was then that he understood all of the clichés. Sure they are clichés, but if they weren’t true, people wouldn’t say them all the time.

Rome was not built in a day.

A rolling stone gathers no moss.

He hit the last step and stretched out his right hand. He pushed open the front door with his hand on the glass directly in front of his face. It left a hand print. It always left a hand print. To him, it was how he left his daily mark on the world.

The world.

Horns honking, people looking down, feet shuffling across the sidewalk, doors opening and revolving, enormous bus engines roaring into gear. The buildings were relatively tall here, casting a semi-permanent shadow over the street.

Jonathan made a sharp left and started down the street. His gray suit, brown briefcase, and black shoes stepping in line with the rest of the morning group like some rhythm less marching band, their instruments ranging from the sticker covered backpack to the brown and shiny briefcase.