Howl at the Moon

Colin stood on the narrow little porch of his condo – his apartment, really. It was someone else’s condo, that he had rented as an apartment. So an apartment-condo. Or condo-apartment. He never knew quite how to describe it. The tiny little space in which he lived.

The porch was the selling point, raising the price of the place from twelve to fifteen hundred a month. It was five feet wide by four feet deep. Almost a square. It bothered him, sometimes, that it wasn’t a perfect square. He wanted the symmetry, though other days a rectangle was fine. More room to stretch out.

It was a cool night as Colin stood, staring out over the parking lot at the building next door. His neighbour, some eighty-four feet away, was cooking dinner. Those eighty-four feet (and eighteen stories) kept Colin from calling out, or waving, or making any sort of contact. He just watched, unseen on the dark balcony of his dark apartment, as the neighbour put some vegetables in a pan, turned to her partner, lifted a glass of wine.

Colin looked away. The moon was peaking out from behind the neighbour’s building, three quarters full. It gleamed, a silvery-white, the face saddened by shadows. Colin watched it, inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter, climbing it’s way out of the building.

He took a deep breath, considered howling. But he didn’t. His neighbours might complain. They might get him kicked out. They might not look at him anymore, might not smile when he smiled to them as they passed in the hallway. He stayed quiet, watching the moon until it passed out of sight behind his building. Not his building. The building in which he lived.

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