Garden Square on Tenth

Garden Square on Tenth by Viola Day Mr. Cromwell always drew the curtains of his window, where his unit sat right above the Romero‚Äôs whose daughter I used to date back in ’93. Some say he was allergic to the sun while others assumed the daylight aggravated his depression. Every time I pedaled my way across his once-dilapidated apartment building in my fixed-speed bicycle, I’d see his shades drawn. I was sure his curtains were stained by the sunlight from being drawn so often. At night, when I’d make my way home, after picking up Mom’s medication from the Pine…

Man on the Red Line

Man on the Red Line by Viola Day I stood there, waiting for the Blue Line, waiting closely enough to the yellow warning strip on the pavement that warns you to stand back unless you preferred a severed foot. (Who’d want that?) Before the Blue Line, came the Red Line. On the Red Line, I saw this man. At the time when both my hands were buried into my pockets, my fingers rolling pocket lint into tiny balls as I bounced my right leg out of impatience, I grew most fascinated by him. He sat, slouched and engrossed in his…