These thoughts are old

He’s just walking around the apartment. The bedroom, bathroom, living room, bedroom, living room, bedroom. The living room. He’s waiting for something. Waiting like it’s on fire and it might explode.

Someone walks by outside. Shadows against the wall, or a cloud in front of the sun, a dark blur moving across the striated shadows of the venetian blinds. He walks across the room and turns the crystal stick to close the blinds, and walks back to where he was standing. The room is darker now, lit only by the television he isn‘t watching. From the corner of his eye he can see the foggy, primary colors of the sets of daytime television. The actor’s muddled voices, their lives, someone loved someone, someone died.

“What is he doing?,” an actor says in a monotone voice, as though she‘s reading the line from a book.
“What is he doing,?” he repeats to himself. “What is he doing?”
Something’s about to happen soon.

He walks to the bedroom. He kicks a pile of shirts and they land near his dresser. He will be moving soon. At least he knows where they are.
Packing. What needs to be packed first? The television? Heavy things get packed first, then the lighter stuff. He needs boxes. He needs to get ready.

A loud motorcycle revs up the street, and a horn honks. He walks to the window and looks out at the street. The empty street. He moves his lips, silently forming the sentence “What is he doing?”

He doesn’t know. It isn’t ever clear. He doesn’t ever know.