The clouds suffocated the sky with grey paint. And although the sun had been hiding for hours, the sidewalk was still hot as hell. I liked it, though. It reminded me of being alive.

I accidentally brushed her skin today, as I walked in front of her to murmur my goodbye before they shut the casket. Her face was abnormally cold against my fingertips. They pounded dark makeup onto her cheeks, and I remember thinking that she resembled a wax figure from a museum I visited in New York a few months prior. Crimson lipstick smothered her lips, similar to the grey paint overwhelming the sky now. Her hands were awkwardly folded on top of her stomach, limp and definite. Her dress was white and gaudy: something she would have never worn if she had the choice.

People say that the dead seem as if they are asleep, as if they are merely dreaming before your eyes. But they lie.

Everything about her was artificial.

I was sitting on the concrete for so long that my hands began to turn red from the pressure. I knew she would have said something optimistic at this point, coupled with a broad, toothy grin. She would have mentioned that at least it wasn’t raining. She would have noted that the grass had been particularly green lately. 

I looked up at the sky again and I still couldn’t spot the sun. Swirls of paint overlapped into an opaque mask.

I wondered if God was keen on metaphors.

As I sat there, several people on their afternoon commute walked past me. I liked to practice what others call “people watching.” I found that I was good at peeking through small, weak links of a person’s life and analyzing them carefully.

For instance, I watched as a stout woman pushed a reluctant stroller in the direction of the park. One wheel seemed broken; it veered in the opposite direction she steered it in. A scowl plastered itself across her lips, and her child began to wail as she pushed onward.

I watched as a skateboarder attempted to complete a trick on his board, but he tripped and ended up stumbling into the grass. When he wobbled back onto his feet, he glanced around as if to make sure no one noticed his clumsy mistake, propped his skateboard under his arm, and decided to walk instead.

Most of these people looked down at me for a split second and quickly flicked their eyes away when we made eye contact. I didn’t blame them, though. I’m sure I stuck out terribly; my shoulders were probably slouched, as if they were holding the cloud-filled sky above them; my cheeks were probably streaked with black mascara; my eyes were probably red and puffy.

So I wasn’t paying attention when a new pair of feet slowly walked by me. A person passing by wasn’t anything new anyway. I just wrapped my arms tighter around my legs and studied the concrete, deep in thought. 

I heard the pair of feet walk away. I then lifted my head and intently watched them as they hesitantly strolled toward the bridge. Shiny black dress shoes. Rolled up socks. Uncertain steps.

The feet then sharply turned to face me. My heart beat quickened suddenly, and I looked up, puzzled.

“I have a joke for you,” declared a boy, probably around the age of fifteen. He stood a few feet away from me, eyes glinting with nervous intention.

I stayed silent, sort of confused.

He cleared his throat. “So a duck walks into a bar and throws something at the bartender…” He then dug into his pocket and tossed a small package of duck sauce at the concrete beside me. The clear package was filled with amber-like liquid, and the label on it pronounced that it was from the Chinese restaurant down the street. “The duck tells the bartender, ‘Put it on my bill.’”

He smiled and turned to walk away again, heading toward the bridge once more.

I glanced down at the small package, picked it up, held it against my skin. The boy was several yards away when I hurriedly shouted after him, “That was a good one!”

He spun around when he heard me, walking backwards and holding two thumbs up. “You’re welcome!”

He then turned back around on his way. And I smiled for the first time all day.

I pulled myself off of the sidewalk and began to walk back toward the house, one foot in front of the other. I held the small package in my hand, clutching it on the way home.