I close the window, then pull the shades closed, noticing how faded the bright white has gotten in the past five years. They’re more of a delicate cream color now. I feel like my skin has made this transition, too.
Mechanically, I cover the typewriter, push in the chair, pull on my coat, lock the door, and let my legs stumble themselves down the stairs and into the street. It’s quiet, which I hate.
I hate that there is no longer anyone shouting in anger or fear, I hate that kids are well-behaved and stay close to their mothers, I hate that cars all motor past at the same 30 miles per hour speed. I hate the quiet because it means I can hear the soft swoosh as another hero glides over my head, monitoring the world with a million-dollar smile.
I shuffle down the street, feeling inexplicably crushed.
“Ellie! Ellie!” shrieks a voice across the street. I’m accosted by Minnie, my roommate, and her friend Lilah, dragged to the dance hall. They know I’ve been down. They’re trying to make me smile. It’s nice.