Dinner anD a Show

by Jazmin Scarberry

I picked up the binoculars and searched across the bridge. They were late. Thirty-minute delivery, my ass. It was 6:48 pm, and I had called Tommy’s Pizza over an hour ago. The binoculars remind me of a woman I used to see. She told me buying binoculars was a terrible waste of money for someone who never left the city. Personally, I think differently. The number of hours I’ve spent on my terrace looking into the windows of neighboring buildings is beginning to add up, but I am not complaining. How careless people are to leave their windows so widely open. Or perhaps their actions in front of the window are careless. There is no doubt in my mind that a part of their subconscious wants to be watched; it makes them feel important knowing someone out there sees them. The doorbell buzzes, interrupting my thoughts. I let the delivery man into the building and search for my wallet. Surely I have enough cash; I hate paying the fee for using my card; either way, it’s my money they’re getting. I have 18 dollars cash--sounds good enough. The delivery guy knocks on my door, and I quickly put on a shirt and go get my late pizza. When I open the door, my newspaper is still lying in front of the door from this morning and the delivery man is standing about two feet behind it. I pay him 15 dollars for the pizza and three for the tip, then grab my paper and head inside. The smell of pepperoni and cheese fills my nostrils. I grab an IPA from the fridge and head back to the terrace for dinner and a show.

Something I have always loved about the city is the lights. It is true what they say about New York; it is the city that never sleeps. It never really seems to be night unless I am lying in bed with my eyes closed. Even then I can hear occasional honks or music from neighbors. I sit down in a lawn chair I found behind the building when I was taking out my trash. It was a nice find. I eat my dinner in between lifting the IPA to my mouth and the binoculars to my eyes. I can see through dozens of windows at this time of evening. Everyone is home from their chaotic lives filled with affairs, unemployment, and drug use. I find myself looking into a window above a Chinese restaurant across the street. There is a man standing in front of a woman who is waving her hands in an angry manner. Women are such dramatic creatures. I feel sympathy for the man who probably came home to a moody girl. Her behavior seems childish to me. In the past, women have often shaken their hands at me like this. I am no stranger to an irrational woman.

by Candela Pérez Castellanos

by Riley Church

From early mornings

To late nights

From sick stuffy noses

To sibling fights

You were always there

From scraped knees

To broken bones

From good days

To bad days

You were always there

From day care

To senior year

From the day we were born

To the day we say goodbye

You have been there

by Kiersten Jones

My head

Can I think?

Is it pounding?

Am I awake?

My heart

Can it feel?

Is it beating?

Am I real?

My lips

Can they speak?

Are they quivering?

Do I look weak?

My hands

Can they touch?

Are they trembling?

Am I too much?

My stare

Is it cold?

Am I just stupid?

Or am I bold?