THE THINGS by nicole pagliari
THAT I KNOW People tell me things.
I tried to angle away from him, to avoid eye contact so that
I know that the woman down the street does not think her son
there he was, his nose pressed up against the other side of the
he would feel less inclined to acknowledge me. But suddenly,
loves his wife. She told me when I stopped to let her pet my dog.
glass, making smudges on its surface. I took a deep breath.
I know that the librarian’s cat might not make it through the
“Hi, Mike,” I try to sound cheerful. “I was thinking that after
winter. He told me this when I confessed that I did not have
this, if there’s nothing else you need me to do, I could head
the $7 to pay my fines.
out early.” It comes out sounding like a question.
I know that the little girl next door only likes one of her Barbie
“I wrote a movie script once,” he replies, running a finger
dolls, but that she keeps asking for more because she wants her favorite Barbie doll to have friends. She told me this when I dropped a quarter into the glass jar labeled “Start Up
over the counter and inspecting it. “Hmm,” I nod, scrubbing away at a crusty bit that refused to
Money for a Lemonade Stand.”
surrender to my soap-soaked rag.
I know that Mike, my manager at Melrose Cafe, is trying to escape.
“Well, it’s almost a movie script,” he confesses. “There’s no
It all started when I was gleaning the glass display cases. My
I almost open my mouth to tell him that drawing is not the
favorite part of every shift has always been wiping away the smattering of crumbs left behind by whatever the Chef’s Special was that day. Mike approached me, in the way he approaches all his underlings when we’re trying to clean quickly so we can leave fifteen, seven, even three minutes early.
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dialogue, but I have the story all drawn out.” same as writing, but I bite my tongue. “Don’t you want to know what it’s about?” he asks, and I want to say no. I don’t say anything; instead, I paint a dripping no on the glass with my rag soaked in glass cleaner.