Black Building
In town, there is a black building. The siding is black, the shutters are black, and the window frames are black. Even the windows are darker than they should be. No one ever talks about the building. No one ever goes inside, and no one ever comes out. Sometimes I stand across the street from it and stare at it really hard, trying to imagine the sort of people who would live or work in an all black building. I imagine men in black suits and ties, typing away at black typewriters filled with black paper, keys striking the darkness out of the paper everytime they hit and leaving strange white letters in an alphabet that nobody but they know. I wonder if there are black carpets and black walls, and if the people inside can even see where they're going, or if all light is swallowed up by the inkiness of their surroundings, and the only way that they can see is is their eyes shine like lanterns in the gloom. Once while I was staring and imagining ladies in dark dresses traveling up stairs and down halls with little black dogs following at their heels, a man stopped and asked me had me staring so intently. When I told him about the building, he gave me a stange look like you give someone whenyou suspect they might have a head disease, and told me that there was nothing there. He seemed confused and worried, looking across the street for a moment before his expression changed and he turned back to me as though nothing in the world was wrong. He patted me on the head and told me that I had a good imagination, but I should be careful telling such stories, because I might make less understanding and creative people nervous. Then he smiled and went on his way. I never saw the man again.