text: Darren Wolf is the kind of man that runs in routines. He wakes up at precisely 6:30 in the morning, and the first thing he does after opening his eyes is fixing his bed. How he knows it is precisely 6:30 in the morning isn’t because of some alarm clock on his phone (his phone can only call his only daughter who lives a city away from him and when absolutely pressed, an ambulance when he needs it), but because of the sounds of his neighborhood that immediately tells his mind to wake up when he hears it. There’s the two high-pitched barks of the terrier monster his neighbor Matt arduously walks in the morning before heading to work because Cyril sleeps in, and the incessant beeping of some other neighbor’s hand-me-down car because they can’t handle parallel parking after a graveyard shift at work. Younger folks who just moved in like his neighbors Matt and Cyril like to stay in this district because of the quaint rural landscape it boasts as an escape to the metropolitan city, but what they’re really doing is dictating Darren’s schedule. Basically, he doesn’t have a choice but to wake up, because his house doesn’t really sound-proof well, considering it was built back in the 1940s. The next order of business would be breakfast: rolled oats and a hard-boiled egg. Completely bland and yet entirely satisfying. His doctors warned him against coffee in his age, but he knew that the thing that will get him in the end will be his smoking history. Younger Darren thought it was cool to smoke a fag but while he doesn’t regret the experience, he’s an idiot to continue his habit well after his 50s. Even now, his chest needs a few pounds directly to the lungs to remind them their integral role to Darren’s continued life on Earth. The house doesn’t bear any marks of his precious cigarettes anymore, his ash trays he let his daughter sell in her garage sale. These days, he just follows his routine. By eight, he’s itching for a walk, and he makes sure to leave food and water for his cat, Basil. Darren doesn’t care for that tall, curly-haired twat in BBC calling himself Sherlock, Basil Rathbone is the only Sherlock Holmes that matters. He leaves with his running shoes meticulously tied, his knitted cable jumper fresh from the fancy laundry machine he got over the holidays, and nice pressed trousers. In spring, the sun hits the sleepy rural town with just the right amount of sunlight, and the air feels light as it breezes by on his weathered cheeks. Living riverside, there’s just enough boats that it’s considered charming, but the tourists do get on Darren’s nerves. He’s more of a fan of autumn walks where time seems to halt every time a golden leaf flutter to the ground, but Eleanor loved spring and its gentle warmth that kisses their snowy town awake after winter. He does a quick circle around his street, sometimes he shops. He would pick a sandwich or maybe chips to eat for lunch and to save for dinner, but he’s had the habit of making extremely detailed groceries ingrained by his mother when he was younger, so spontaneous shopping isn’t in the daily routine. He’s known to be gruff and silent, and he could feel some schoolchildren staring at his back as they go to primary school when he ventures nearer to the more populated streets. He doesn’t mind It most of the time; Occasionally when he catches their eyes and they stop staring and reluctantly gives him a hesitant smile, it reminds him of his daughter Donna and simpler times. Most of the time, he’d finish his circuit and be back from his jaunt by late morning and Basil will be laying on his corner of sunshine by the hall. A book, shared in silence between a man and his cat, is slotted in the routine until he feels his stomach grumble for lunch. He takes his lunch outside in their porch, with an awning that makes the afternoon sun a bit more bearable. Today is a Wednesday, which means his neighbor, Cyril will be outside too. “Darren! Heard Basil meowing a bit earlier. Did you forget to feed him again?” Ever since his recent run in to the hospital, his neighbors have made the point to talk to Darren when they see him at least once a day. Maybe Donna has forced them to do it, fearing for her father’s self-imposed isolation after the death of her mother last year and the reoccurring nightmare of him dying without anyone noticing now that she’s gone ahead. Maybe Cyril’s decided to be neighborly after living next to each other for two months. They moved in and settled by winter, and were very courteous, but Darren’s not a fan of the cold and stayed indoors where the heat was reliable. Cyril’s what Eleanor would have called sweet if she was still around, and she would’ve given him an extra marmalade jar when she made them in batches. Luckily for Darren, Eleanor’s not around to swat him in the arm when he’s being rude to people who interrupt his lunch. He gestures at the empty easel in front of his neighbor, “Planning to finish this time?” This usually gets Darren the intended effect for the past week: Cyril’s embarrassed grimace and death of awkward conversation between two people defined by their generations. Cyril’s a painter, or he valiantly attempts to be one every day. Darren isn’t entirely sure what he actually does as an occupation, but on weekdays, Cyril paints quite erratically; unfinished portraits of the river, the little wildflowers dotting the edges of the riverbanks, even an incomplete portrait of his husband in front of the idyllic rural background. He starts with an empty white canvas, and when Darren peeks at his neighbor’s work (which if he’s asked, he’ll vehemently deny) he’s done some work that somehow vanishes the next day. This time however, Cyril smiles. “Actually, I’d like it if I could maybe paint you,” he eyes Darren up and down, as if sizing him and placing him already as the subject of his painting. Darren gets a sinking feeling in his stomach, which can’t possibly be the pudding he’s eating. “And don’t worry, I hear your doubts. This time, definitely, I’ll finish painting, and you can even keep the end result for absolutely free.” “Why on earth would you paint someone like me?” Darren incredulously asks, his lunch forgotten beside him. “Surely, there’s better candidates for painting. Just wait for your husband when he gets home and paint him!” He could feel a dangerous flush of embarrassment tainting his usually gruff face. Eleanor has always said the he embarrasses easily and reddens like an angry tomato that just about to drop from the vegetable vine. He gestures uncomfortably and shrugs, “Paint the sky, or some car, or even Basil, for god’s sakes.” “I’ve painted those lot already, and Matt’s a terrible model. He moves around and isn’t at all interesting; He just frowns at his mobile and talks about the stock market. I know I married him, but he’s dreadfully boring,” Cyril amusedly says as he continues to regard Darren with continued interest. “You, on the other hand, are incredibly interesting. I’ve been trying to paint outside ever since spring made it easier to set up my easel and paints while every day without fail, you sit outside for lunch. When you stare at nothing and everything, I just want to capture the moment where you here and yet aren’t here at all and feel what you feel. I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but you only ever smile during lunch time, and it can’t possibly be because of what you’re eating, “he stops suddenly and gives a sudden belly-aching laugh that startles Darren, “I realize I sound like a stalker, and I swear I’m not, I just really want to paint you.” Silence seems to have descended into the conversation, as Darren grapples with the fact that his neighbor is more astute than he realized which puts his self-taught inquisitiveness from his love for crime solving books to shame that had made him think he’s slightly more superior to his younger neighbors. His neighborhood has changed as the ties caught up on them, and Darren and his quiet corner has stayed intact. Maybe he has always felt that his age made him felt wiser and more enduring than his flighty neighbors who change as seasons come, but he’s never been caught off-guard like this from a conversation before. Worse, his ears betray him as they distinctly hear Eleanor’s amusement as if she’s right beside him as they would’ve been sitting together at lunchtime, look at you, making friends! Told you, you could do it. Cyril looks more and more uncomfortable as the silence stretches on to minutes than the seconds he had initially hoped for and Darren’s mouth remains locked and his whole-body tense, like a tightly coiled spring. “Listen, forget it, it was a stupid idea, I’m sorry to bother you--” “Alright then.” Darren interrupts what would have been a more embarrassing conversation for the two of them. He could pretend to himself that he’s only acquiescing to dodge another nuisance, but to be honest, he feels a bit curious to see how his neighbor sees him. Eleanor would’ve loved the idea, too. It would be something new to tell her when he visits her on Sunday after mass instead of recounting the same old routine he’s been telling her and which no doubt, makes boring conversation for her. Cyril’s face starts with to slight confusion to surprise and complete delight. “Wonderful! Absolutely--I don’t know what to say really, excellent!” Darren eyes him and he immediately stops his chatter but the happiness on his face remains. “Just... sit there and eat? I suppose? I haven’t really thought ahead after asking you really,” Cyril keeps his steady stream of chatter and while his neighbor fixes his painting things that looks unnecessarily complicated to Darren, he resumes his lunch and wonders if he’s too old to make a new friend and decides that if Eleanor were here, she would have told him in between Cyril’s chitchat to already invite the poor thing over for dinner, and that’s what he’s going to do.