Voosh

The city is so loud; I’d forgotten that.

For a moment I wonder how my brother sleeps so soundly, unmoving except for deep, even breaths, against the faint glow of the monitor. It’s a jungle out there. But I know why.

It’s because he stayed up all night working on his senior architecture project while I lazed in bed polishing off Oates’ faithless and watching CSI. I eventually slept at 6 a.m. when the sky began to lighten; his sleep comes now, 36 hours after he last lay to rest.

The sounds are grating; panicked sirens, squealing bus brakes, chatter, horns, indistinct activity – Georgia Avenue at its finest. It reminds me how comfortable I’ve become with Daytona’s warm quiet, just like my days of aggressive driving on Trinidad roads have become layered under obeying traffic laws and making way for elderly people who have no business driving (big cars), just like my days of belly-baring shirts have been lost under layers of more conservative tops screaming for respect rather than attention.

Plunging necklines, maybe? I’ll think about it.

I’ll also be joining the din later on some form or fashion, in Adams Morgan or at the waterfront, wherever the breeze between the buildings blows me.

Voosh.