April 10

The people on the 3rd floor

The square space on the first two rows to the right is safe from most people's peripherals. Dozens of footprints and crumbs are buried in an endless sea of moss colored yarn.

The woman on the front row sits with pastel colors on her eyelids. She hums nursery rhymes while quietly assessing the dull roar behind her. A man behind her speaks with eloquence while fixes his tie and pressed shirt. He counts the days left in a month to see how high he can jump. A man behind the suit and tie taps his foot until it's time for him to get up. He walks around with blood shot eyes and speaks with the only strength left in him. On the second row, there's a woman from Romania. She lays with a Muslim man who plants roses in her backyard.

Every hour or so a dark haired woman laughs with a jazzy voice and sways her hips as she walks. She speaks half Mayan despite her butterscotch complexion and freckles on her cheeks. A young man across from the suit and tie walks with sunlight on his footsteps. He turns the light off on Friday nights and hides from the trees from Easter to Winter. Lastly, there is a woman from the Far East who stares at cut out pictures of a house and reads letters from dead poets. She takes long walks until her feet are one with the sand and longs for cloudless skies and starry nights.

The quiet mother, the perfectionist, the restless, the Romanian, the Mayan, the Jew and the romantic, we are the people on the third floor.

- Laurina Laupase