7:21 am. Right on time. As she always was. Heather Jones walked down the sidewalk holding her books in her arms, her strawberry reddish hair swinging from one shoulder to the other, her freckled-tan skin glowing in the morning sun. Gilbert stepped back from his bedroom window, and watched furtively as she crossed Maple Avenue, gracefully hopped the curb, and continued down the opposite side of the street. God, she was pretty, Gilbert thought. The prettiest senior at Hanbrook High School. Everyone thought so. She approached the front of his house, her long strides quickly taking her passed the stone walkway, then she disappeared behind the neatly-trimmed wall of eye-high bushes that surrounded the property. He craned his neck to catch one last glimpse of her before she took a left on Stanfield Road and continued on towards the high school. And that was it. As it was yesterday. And the day before that. And nearly every day of the past year. So he moved to his closet, pulled on a pair of underwear, a pair of jeans and concert T-shirt, then, eventually made his way to the kitchen for breakfast. Maybe later he'd see Heather in school. Pass by her in the hallway. Watch her from across the auditorium, or as she went into a classroom. Or maybe he wouldn't. But at least he saw her this morning.
Alfred C. Martino
Updates from everyday life as seen by me