They Are Animals.

I

The city slept. It was a restless kind of sleep where rats scurried through buildings and lights flicked on in apartment windows at unapparent times. There was no wind, but voices still carried from the bar district downtown. If someone stood on the roof of an apartment block out here they’d be able to see the last flashes of club lights before they were switched off. The city would settle then into its nightly score.

The people at the bars called this area ‘The Cave,’ and generally stayed away. But occasionally, such as on this night, a lone, drunken wanderer would break from their group and find themselves in The Cave alone. This time, it was a young woman. Just recently twenty-three, she had appeared on her parent’s doorstep after a strain of unsuccessful job searches. I’m young, she kept telling herself, I have time. She thought that loud music and MDMA might at least help take the edge off.

There was a man walking the other way. He was broad-shouldered, and the street-light highlighted his sharp jaw. He was tired. This would be the fourteenth day in a row he worked moving brick. He was returning home now to pick up his young daughter from the neighbor, who agreed to watch the child on weeknights. The mom wasn’t around anymore.

The man and the woman’s lives would cross paths on a poorly lit street corner in The Cave. When they passed, their eyes locked and the man smiled. The man meant no harm. The woman, however, couldn’t help but think about a science lesson from her childhood. About how, when ants are separated from their colonies, there’s a one-hundred percent chance of death.

II

In a different city, the library is quiet. It’s late; the old men have detached themselves from the computers and the university students have returned home to drink. Now, there’s only a young man and a young woman left.

            The two are sat at opposite tables, and are tuned to the other’s presence. The man notices the woman dog-ear the pages of her book that make her smile. He notices how she taps her rings on the rim of her coffee cup before she takes a sip and wonders if the band on her ring finger is just a fashion choice.

            The woman notices how the man rhythmically caps and uncaps his pen, then chews the end when he’s deep in thought. She notices how he shifts the pages around him as he works, and wonders whether she can really smell his cologne or if it’s her imagination.

            For hours, the two engage in this soundless dance. The thrumming of the library’s ventilation is the only sound other than their breathing. Then, the man notices the woman smile and looks up, expecting to see her dog-ear a page. Instead, she looks up at him and the pair lock eyes.

Here, they are ants pulled away from the colony.