A man was walking down a neighborhood street,
Or rather, what used to be a beautiful street has become a ghost town,
Cracks along the pavement of street,
The paint of the houses, faded and cracked,
The dusty windows block the view of the inside,
The green lawns that everyone always prepped in the summer
Now lie, a golden shade of death.
The man took a moment to bask in the forgotten greatness.
He was short, his sharp-like shoulders made him bigger than he looks.
He wore a dirt brown jacket that matched with ripped, holey jeans,
His shoes, stylish back then, but now so dirty that a gust of wind could have created a cloud.
The man continued on, movements were swift but awkward, hands firmly clenched in his pockets.
His legs seemed to buckle with every step, as if he was carrying a heavy burden.
He hid his face, but his head moved side to side with every step, as if he heard something no one else could hear.
Halfway down the road was a row of tables,
just sat in the middle of the paper-infested street.
The man stopped, curiously looking at the tables.
It had seemed that these tables were untouched by the plague that wiped this street clean, but was astounding was what was on the table.
Food...warm, cooked food,
He tooked a deep breath with his nose, but found no aroma, no scent, not even the smell of the butter.
He cautiously walked toward the tables, resuming his previous agenda, but with different intentions.
He was slowly walking, his head returning to its natural movement, but every now and then would focus on the table.
It was half way down he decided to take his chance, the magnificent food should not be put to waste.
He selected a nice, juicy steak, still sizzling on the plate, and started to reach for it…
But then he whipped his hand back like a kids’ hand being caught in the cookie jar,
He moved frantically, running straight up to a house at the end of the street,
He fumbled around in his pockets, obviously searching for something, until he found them, the keys.
He just put the key into the lock when he heard a scream from behind him, so out of instinct, he turned.
The street was full  of people, eating, laughing, partying, and having a great time.
They treated each other as if they were family.
He tried to locate the scream, which was high pitched, and found a little girl that had tripped and scraped her knee in front of her house.
He started to move towards her, hoping to help, but the mother obviously saw the situation, and hastily took her girl away from him, attending to her wound at a different location.
The man sighed,
Why did everyone hate him?
With everything he has done, which has been practically nothing at all, what makes him different from everyone?
Is it how he looks, how he walks, spoke?
He could stand there all day, all night, a year, contemplating the situation that has baffled him…
He shrugged, and entered the house.
A sigh of relief echoed through the cold, quiet home.