[Cadaverous Pallor]

Jude watched his sneakers. The sidewalk slid around them as he made his way steadily up the road. Each time he moved his left foot, it rotated slightly, pitching forward and yawing right, so he could see the outlines of the filthy Reebok logo on the side. Straight foot, Reebok, straight foot, Reebok. Jude knew he didn’t want to think about why his left ankle didn’t work too well, but he couldn’t help but watch his feet everywhere he went.

“It’s easier to see the sidewalk jiggle with my feet jiggling instead of the world jiggling,” he said loudly to himself.

He had almost passed the doorway when he came to a halt. No one watching would have figured this was his goal, but one instant he was moving full speed, the next, he was so stationary it was hard to believe he could move at all. After a few beats, he shuffled in a circle and wedged himself into the shallow doorway.

Jude raised his eyes from his shoes.

The cement was absolute gray, looking soft and almost spongy, rippling in their own time. A bricklayer’s comb marks were deep and irregular, the seams between cement sheets apparent and showing painful weakness. Old damage had been repaired with more goopy cement, platelets trying to congeal in wounds. Jude did not want to touch it, for fear of a wet or yielding skin, though he knew he had put a hand on this wall before.

He could see the prints plainly, in the stark white of a perfect past, of a blinding breath in time, of easily leaning on the wall and chatting, of seeing her eyes and shoulders and the way her hair curled. He’d ring the bell and she’d come down, not wanting to bring him up to the small flat with it’s tired furniture and spare dishes. They’d had the odd tradition of inspired small talk in the small doorway before strutting out to dining and music.

The only plate he could read said STUART. STUART. STUART. Jude read it again and again, nowhere else to rest his eyes except the phantom handprints and the undulating wall. He remember the odd ring the knobs made and wished to hear it again, so he reached out a cold hand.

RRRRRRRRRRR. RRRRRRRRR. The twist completed a circuit and he could hear the buzz coming form her 3rd floor apartment window. He read STUART again and twisted the knob. RRRRRRRRRR.

He could hear bare feet stomp the stairs just inside the doorway, and then the door was open a few inches, a chain restraining any real view of the inside.

“Who’s there?” Her voice cracked, not of fear but just of being unused today. Must be Wednesday, thought Jude. She paints at home on Wednesday. Wednesday.

“Me,” he responded. He had reflexed to look at his Reeboks again, but when she leaned forward, a blond wisp of hair flashed through the door, and he saw that, alright.

The woman behind the door sighed heavily.

“Jude. You remember what we talked about before?”

He made these sounds: “Yeah, I know.”

“I tried, I tried to help, but I couldn’t. You wouldn’t let me help. You wouldn’t help yourself.”

“I know.”

“You have to go.”

“It says STUART. Where the bell is. That’s all.” Seemed the right thing to say, the truth.

“That’s right, Jude.”

“Ok.” There was finality there.

“Ok.” She closed the door abruptly. She knew that any conversation, even a goodbye, was only encouragement.

Jude was motionless. Cars stuttered by. A stiff breeze ran along the side of the building. He waited over 2 minutes, motionless, for a goal to materialize.

“Gotta go to the park.” Before the sentence was completely out of his mouth, Jude was already out of the alcove and a few sidewalk squares away, watching his feet take him to his favorite drinking fountain.