Western Washington Gothic
You exit your house every day to gray skies and the sound of seagulls. You never see the seagulls. Their calls are so shrill, so loud, yet they never fly overhead. But you can rest assured they see you.
The farmer’s market is closed right now. You distinctly remember visiting it at one point, but you never see anyone there anymore. Where is it, anyway?
The puddles on the sidewalks never dry up. They seem far deeper and darker than anyone you could ever meet.
The trees are always green. You always see green. Everything is green. It is never sunny, but the trees don’t seem to mind.
You walk by at least 20 pale, brown-haired people a day wearing jeans, sneakers, and a North Face polar-fleece. They never greet you, and you can never remember their faces once they pass by.
“Float On” is playing on the radio. It is always playing on the radio. It is always too quiet and imbued with static for you to remember the lyrics. You hum along.
There are so many boats in the harbor and none of them ever have anyone in them.
At the corner of every urban block there is a Starbucks. You enter them when passing, like everyone else. You order something small, just to tide you over, you say. Two minutes later, you’re in the one down the street, ordering something similar. You can always smell coffee. And fish. Your head hurts.
You are stuck in traffic. I-5 is packed with cars similar in color to your own. You inch forward and ponder the intricacies of the building to your right, with the words “ONE DOLLAR CHINESE FOOD” written in large, red print along one wall. No one has ever eaten there. You have no desire to either. The car in front of you inches forward. Where is everyone driving to?
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