downstairs

The Indian restaurant on the first floor has been dark since last Tuesday. I thought they might be on vacation, but the sign says thank you for your business, we have closed. I can hear them in the apartment next door, the front door open, tugging to the end of the safety chain, thick smells of cooking and voices drifting out. I’ve been trying to guess out the emotional shape underneath the unfamiliar words, but they talk flatly and everyday to each other. I don’t know if they’ve failed or just reached the end of something. We haven’t seen each other in the hall.

The karaoke bar has moved their pamphlet racks and daily-special chalkboards out in front of the Indian restaurant. Someone has started parking a cherry red Akira style motorcycle across the front door.

Yesterday an older woman with tight skin and a painted face had set out racks of used clothes and little bins of old plastic toys in front of the empty Indian restaurant. Behind her little display the front door of the restaurant was open, inside it was piled high with chairs and table cloths. She smiled and told me to look around the stuff she was selling, but I didn’t have time to stop and ask what it was all about.