Miguel Derett: Mid-Afternoon

Mid-Afternoon

Miguel Derett

The sun was setting over the horizon of a half-empty parking lot. In the distance, the sounds of endless traffic fill in the would-be silence. The violent noise of honking horns, opening and closing of car doors, motor engines revving, and unwanted yelling blends together with the softer sounds of songs on the radio, small-talk over cellphones, and a soothing sigh entangled with the exhale from a day’s end cigarette.

From the comfort of an apartment up on high, it all seemed like a world away. Maybe like a kind of distant river stream, a mid-afternoon lullaby accompanied by an auburn haze, a kind of burnt orange wave that washes over the scene. A steam of setting sunlight floods through the open windows, past the pulled back crimson colored curtains, and falls with the softest imprint to stain the floor - a stage light set to the intensity of an actor nearing the end of their soliloquy. And as the wind blows back the curtains, the sun light comes and goes, the stage light flickers to and fro - an actor gets called back on stage, come on, do it again. On second thought, maybe not.

Sweat from the top of the forehead displays the first signs of fatigue and wear and tear and weight of the day. The midpoint of a person’s stamina has been crossed over like a cat slowly tipping something over and shattering that which cannot be so easily put back together. It is after crossing this point that the air around seems to weight a bit heavier, each breath is a bit deeper than the last, and the world seems to simply turn a little slower. It is the difference between standing upright, ready to face a crowd, and slightly leaning over the counter, willing to let your guard down.

Then the body slowly starting to give in. The tension from the fingers are released from the top knuckle on down. Soreness wraps and lingers around. The hands that have been active all day now seem slightly less familiar. Try to reach for a pen only to fumble around, try to grasp it and falter because the wires within your fingers don’t seem to respond with the same amount of push and pull as before. An extra bone in the back of the neck has been melted and the muscles all around have turned to gelatin. An invisible pair of glasses that have been digging into the bridge of the nose can finally be taken off – or preferably thrown across the room. And the eyes begin to thaw; stone and marble turn to a pair of koi fish swimming and interweaving as it rains. And it becomes all too easy to drop the shoulders a bit more and use the nearby wall as support. A landline phone rings. There is no answer, only the sight of the handle lifting up and just as quickly coming down with the sound of a plastic click. The phone rests in its place. Simmering, as if it were on a stove. Burning as if it too were tired. The handle is hot to the touch; the core is warm from within.