Keys, keys, keys.
Where are they? He has misplaced them.
His hair falls haphazardly, grazes the collar of his stiff oxford shirt.
Maisie ironed it for him, starched it, even. For a special occasion, she said.
He wouldn’t exactly call this a special occasion.
He feels the creases on the fabric below the fourth button, the creases her fingers made as they folded the shirt over, folded it neatly away into the depths of his closet.
There has never been any special occasion. At least not one that calls for that starched oxford shirt.
He does not understand why it is now, why he cannot go on his sweatpants and the Rangers sweatshirt she always wore, even when there was a game on and it was his lucky sweatshirt.
He misses home, misses the anonymity of the state university, and the unanimity of the Saturday games, the sea of orange sweatshirts.
The city was Maisie’s idea. He’s only there because of her, and now he sits alone in the back of a dozen yellow cabs each day; listens to the driver tell, play god-awful music, swerve and turn the meter on early, off late. And repeat.
Never the subway, though. He hears it, through the grates in the sidewalk as he walks to work, a loud, steel monster, an enemy.
His enemy. His enemy that connects this city, this prison of concrete that he lives in. Blocks and avenues of people and people and strangers and the rattle of the subway connecting it all, linking it all together, linking together all the reasons why he knows he should not– cannot be there any longer.
And yet he trudges on.
His keys are on the coffee table, he’s seen them now, picks them up, and his scarf; goes.
In the street he finds a vendor, hooded, Cuban, buys a bouquet of flowers from the boy.
Cannot look hi in the eyes because he is too similar, too similar to the descriptions he was given, the wall of pictures he was forced to look at during the inopportune times he was asked to stand, move from the cracked, vinyl chair at NYPD, Precinct 33.
Too similar to the eyes he imagines Maisie saw, and he doesn’t want to imagine.
He hails a cab, gets in and the driver yells, and plays god-awful music, swerves and turns the meter on early, off late.
And he gets out and he’s across the river, and he thinks again how Maisie would’ve wanted to be in the city, how she loved the city, was the reason he was in the city.
But her family hadn’t known that, picked New Jersey, off the interstate where freight trucks rumbled by all day and the sky was always gray. Yes, they hadn’t known that, hadn’t known her.
And he doesn’t know her now, either, only knows the slab of stone with her name engraved across the front, the slab of stone where he kneels and leaves the flowers and itches the collar of the shirt that she ironed. Starched, even.
(I am planning to enter this work in a writing contest, so as much critique as possible would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.)
Remember: good sentences don't constitute confusing constructions or big words. They provide detail, flow well and get to the point in a way that befits the moment. Once again, read aloud!