Lithe, you could call him, if you were feeling pretentious. He doesn’t take up much space, hedged into the crevice before his laptop.
Chicago, I can’t afford you, he begins to write, and then deletes it all. He looks at the poptart, so near and tempting, imagines it toasted and slathered with Nutella, and then imagines eating it when the sun has risen. It would be a better use of resources.
His eyes feel dry. Well, just one, really, but it’s enough to make him close them as he types. He thinks about his decision to stay away from his home, the place of his birth, and the love-family-place. Is it a mistake? Maybe. But he’s used to making high stake mistakes and the wreckage it leaves his body in. Just not now.
Now he is just tired. And thinking about money makes him feel small.
Chicago, I cannot afford you.
His eyes are closed again, thinking about what he can’t afford. He can’t afford the gear he has bought for motorcycle lessons. He can’t afford the groceries he has just purchased. He can’t afford to keep holding on to things, but he hasn’t yet learned how to let go.
All he can afford is his small-tired mind and the reflections of a window where nobody will find him. He can, at the very least, afford to dance where no one will see.