Dame looked at his reflection from the storefront window, rain scattered across the glass as his gaze bounced between the store hour decals and his silhouette.

BY BRIAN LOPEZ

IMAGE BY CAMEO VENCHIARUTTI

Everyone felt it.

Dame looked at his reflection from the storefront window, rain scattered across the glass as his gaze bounced between the store hour decals and his silhouette.

No more tears. You hear me? No tears. No goddamn tears. No God either.

A middle-aged woman in tights and a track jacket ran by. Tiny splashes echoed as her sneakers connected with each puddle. It shifted his focus to the present.

“Tsk,” he blew under his breath. “Such heavy feet.”

But damn - good for her. Even on a day like today. I should probably run too.

There was a brief second where he thought he had enough motivation to move, but he continued to stand there, frozen by the disapproving look of his mirrored image. He seemed to be ashamed of himself. Or maybe the reflection was ashamed of whom it embodied? Nothing could propel any sort of movement. The look on his face was that of a ghost, one that self-loathes the longer they stare, wishing their life would be over already so the mind could move on.

The rain started to pour. It was as if someone had just ripped the bottom out of these thick, grey clouds that parented the city. The polluted, earthy smell started to contaminate the air. It began heightening the wet, street odor that reminded him this was in fact when the worms came out.

Can’t believe it man. I can’t. I worked so damn hard. I dedicated my life to provide stability. And for what, to start over? Me?

His stance turned from stone to mud as he reached in his pocket for his headphones. This spark of inner dialogue carried hints of resentment, and the busy sounds of the city became irritable. He wanted to hear nothing, and only everything about what he was feeling in that moment. He was very occupied with his emotional turmoil these days.

Both hands were soaked now, but he still wiped them on the front of his black denim pants out of habit. He rubbed the earbuds against his windbreaker before sliding them under his toque and into both ears. He took his phone out and tried to play a song, but the screen continued catching raindrops that made it glitch and open apps he didn’t want. A few notifications flashed on the screen.

“Hey, how’d it go today?”

“Yoooooooo have you seen this yet?”

“If you’re not free tomorrow, what about Sat.? Lmk.”

“AMEX: CAD 10.54 charge approved above credit limit. Please make a paym…”

Holding his breath, he slid the top of the screen down and finally hit play. He decided that he would resist replying to anything for the rest of that day.

Wrong song. Next. No, next. Nah. No. F*ck man.

Still shuffling through his music, he started to walk east. It wasn’t the way home. Nothing felt comfortable in the moment. Home was just outside reasonable walking distance, but public transportation sounded like a nightmare today. Even with headphones, the sheer sight of strangers, people he didn’t know, and being in a situation that was out of his control, would drive him into some sort of madness.

Finally, the track he wanted queued. He found comfort in the lyrics.

“I know your secrets, don’t let me tell ‘em to the world…You just can’t get right, I think your heart made of bulletproof…And if these mirrors could talk it’d say, ‘You gotta go.’”

His thoughts formed some clarity.

Secrets man. Secrets. Tired of them. Tired of being dishonest.

Realizing east was not the way home, he turned around, head glued to the phone screen, refusing to acknowledge the store as he passed by. It was like a secret he created with himself. A false promise that if he didn’t look or recognize the store, it didn’t exist and couldn’t bother him. An unfortunate truth about his habits.

As he neared the store, the door swung open.

Of course. Perfect timing.

Two women walked out, one holding a shopping bag and the other, a rolled-up poster board. The rain seemed to catch their attention, and Dame only noticed them peering through the top of his eyes. The woman with shopping bag put her hood on, and the other tucked the poster in between her jacket and hugged herself to secure it. They didn’t see him approaching.

He paused his music.

“It’s really coming down now!” the first woman said. The other shook her head in approval. “Are you sure you didn’t want to take a look anywhere else?”

“No! That’s o–“ she cut herself off as they stepped in front of Dame.

Both forces came to a stop.

“Oh sorry. Sorry,” he insisted.

Then something caught his attention, beyond the two women, looking into the store and past the entrance, there was a group of them standing in the middle. Laughing. Smiling. Then laughing again.

A secret maybe? Among them. His brain started to spiral.

About me? Probably about me? No. They don’t care. Maybe it is about me?

He took a step to the side and both women made eye contact with him. Their looks became a glare, and that one second turned him back to stone. The women started to tower him like trees of the forest. A redness pervaded in their eyes, and he noticed they were laughing too.

What’s so funny? Did they tell them?

Louder and louder the laughs became. Both women covered their mouths and leaned into each other as if to tell a secret. Behind both hands their bloodshot eyes prevailed. His anxiety was beginning to suck him in. Their laughter became whispers, which soon felt like hisses. Piercing his mind was this ringing noise. An acidic taste formed on his tongue; he could feel the dryness in his throat as his lips cracked.

“?!” was all that he could express. Nothing vocal came out.

He could see they started to feel uncomfortable and became visibly cautious. The one holding the poster clutched harder as she took a small step back.

“Excuse me? You okay?” the first woman asked.

The

rain

continued.

What did she say? I think I feel –

faint.

“Hello? Sir?” The poster lady responded this time.

Dame remained silent. The only gesture he made was to raise his hand and check his –

My pulse. I think it’s getting faster. I think. One, two, three – it seems fine. But my forehead is sweaty, my toque is drenched. What do these women want?!

It’s nothing Dame. You’re anxious Dame.

The reassuring pulse granted him courage to look away from both women and the store. He started walking again. A new song played from his phone without having tapped the screen. With each step, it became impossible to ignore how wet his feet were. That split second standing in front of those women left his jacket drenched too, it was so wet the colour darkened, he wiped off his shoulders with the top of his hand.

Hyenas. All of them. I’ll never share that secret.

Headed west, home was still quite a distance. Except a subtle ease came over him in this direction. Not enough to reply, but enough to smell the crisp, chill air through the rain. A streetlight in the distance extended its rays on a café he recognized. He wouldn’t dare vocalize this comfort. In fact, he turned up the volume on his phone to drown out any excess thought. As he continued towards the caféa figure was approaching him with a quick pace. It was the lady he saw running earlier. Without sharing a glance, she ran past him and kept heading east.

Brian Lopez is a writer based in Toronto, Ontario. He is pursuing his Bachelor of Creative and Professional Writing at Humber College.

Image: Hypervision (Cameo Venchiarutti)

Edited for publication by Ariesha Mais, as part of the Bachelor of Creative & Professional Writing program..

HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation.