I was staring out the window thinking about very ancient and pointless things. A girl named Angel McLaughlin owes Erica 50 cents from 7th grade. Angel had a birthmark that looked like a permanent hickey. Angel called me fat. The Spanish teacher, Mrs. Pacheco, screamed at her once, "YOUR NAME SHOULD BE DEVIL!!"
Three of the buildings I can see in the reflection across from me are reddish brown. One of them has a ridiculous looking triangular glass roof.
I chewed on a piece of ice. My breakfast felt unsettled. I thought of beer. I had four beers last night and I enjoyed them. I salivated.
I heard children playing outside. How can they scream like that all day?
In the corner of my eye, a snake appeared. It poked down into my field of vision out the window, and wiggled its white head as it lowered towards the ground, against the glass of the building across from me.
Then came another. The second snake was light brown, and it wiggled in the same loose way, shaking its head side to side, and slowly moving downwards.
The heads of the two snakes lowered beyond where I could see. I watched their bodies quiver in the breeze against face of 36 South Charles Street.
One of the snakes started to jerk in a violent spasm. The other, of course, began soon after.
They rocked and swayed, collided and intertwined, then separated again.
Two men slid down into my view, clinging on and walking backwards down from the sky.
Soapy rain drizzled down to the sidewalk, on a sunny day.
After they squeegied the soapy water off of the glass, the reflection of the triangular building sparkled brighter in the noonday sun.