“You look wonderful in that hat…”
Every morning, I step onto the balcony of my apartment with my coffee and stare at the building across the street that blocks the sunrise.
It’s probably a gorgeous sunrise, I told myself one Monday, taking a sip of coffee.
In the corner of my eye, I saw a pigeon — but it was Mr. Ainsley, my neighbor. He was standing next to the stone gargoyle on the ledge between our balconies, palms pressed flat against the wall. He was wearing a bowler hat. And a grey suit.
“Morning, Mr. Ainsley.”
He was breathing deeply.
“Nice day, isn’t it?”
He swallowed.
A gush of wind blew Mr. Ainsley’s hat off. We both watched it fall twenty-four stories to the street. A taxi drove over it.
I looked at my watch. It was 7:30.
“I have to go to work. If I’m even one minute late, Brenda will frown at me.”
I downed the rest of my coffee.
“Have a good day.”
Mr. Ainsley didn’t say anything. He was still gazing down at his hat.
On Tuesday morning, I brewed some coffee and opened the balcony door.
Mr. Ainsley was still on the ledge. He was breathing even harder, now. And rubbing the grey stubble on his chin.
“Would you like some coffee?”
I poured him a cup, reached through the balcony bars and sat it on the ledge.
I watched Mr. Ainsley meticulously step over the gargoyle … and edge closer. Several minutes later, he picked up the cup.
“It’s probably cold by now.”
Mr. Ainsley shrugged.
“I forgot to ask if you take cream and sugar.”
He seemed to be drinking it anyway.
I sat down. The sunrise was beautiful. Presumably.
“The machine got jammed yesterday when I was making copies. Brenda came into the copy room and frowned at me.”
Mr. Ainsley nodded, sipping his coffee. When he finished, he set the cup on the ledge. He shooed the pigeon off the gargoyle and maneuvered back over it.
It was close to 7:30. Dangerously close. I polished off my coffee.
“See you tomorrow.”
I was drinking from my biggest mug because it was Wednesday.
“Then I dropped the folder and pages went everywhere. One of them slid under the door of Brenda’s office and she came out frowning.”
Mr. Ainsley was half-listening. He was leaning on the gargoyle’s head, abstractedly fussing with his cufflink.
On a balcony across the street, a woman was painting a picture of something. I wondered if it was a sunrise. I stepped inside and back out with my binoculars. I focused on the painting…
It was a plain, grey rectangle.
I scanned every balcony from the top of the building to the bottom but didn’t see anything.
Then I saw a pigeon on the sidewalk and focused on that. No, it was Mr. Ainsley’s flattened bowler hat.
I sighed.
Mr. Ainsley sighed too.
“Brenda didn’t invite me to her birthday party. She invited everyone in the office except me. I gave her a pigeon pendant anyway and she frowned at me.”
Mr. Ainsley blinked. He was holding my favorite grey mug but wasn’t drinking from it. He hadn’t touched yesterday’s cup either.
I decided I wasn’t in the mood for conversation. I flipped through a book. During a sunrise, short wavelengths are scattered, leaving longer wavelengths like orange, red and yellow.
I closed the book and stared at the building across the street for a minute. Then I looked at my watch. It was 7:31.
I dropped the book and my coffee and sprinted inside.
On Friday, Mr. Ainsley was sitting on the gargoyle’s back with his eyes closed. There was a pile of dried grey pigeon shit on top of his bald head.
I nursed my coffee and told him about my dream.
“I was sitting on the balcony, drinking my coffee, when suddenly the sun rose. The building across the street was gone. I saw all the colors: orange, red, yellow. My eyes glowed orange, red, yellow. Don’t turn your head, I thought, but I did. I turned my head … and saw the gargoyle. It was frowning at me.”
I glanced at Mr. Ainsley, but he still hadn’t opened his eyes.
He must’ve been sleeping.
My alarm didn’t go off, so there was no time for coffee Saturday morning. I had one after dinner, instead. I slipped into my grey pajamas — it was a chilly night — and carried my cup outside.
As I sipped, I heard whimpering sounds. I wasn’t sure if it was pigeons or Mr. Ainsley.
I peered through the darkness at the ledge but couldn’t see anything.
I leaned over the railing and still couldn’t see anything.
“Are you there, Mr. Ainsley?”
There was no response.
I sat back down.
I was going to mention something about Brenda, but I didn’t see the point. I swallowed my coffee in silence.
The moon is superb, I told myself. I looked everywhere but couldn’t find it.
I go for a long walk alone in the park every Sunday morning. I breathe the fresh air; I feed the pigeons. I was scattering breadcrumbs when Brenda and her greyhound came bounding down the path. I hid behind a tree until they passed me.
That afternoon, I went shopping. Strolling home with a cappuccino, I passed Quinton’s Haberdashery. I stopped because there was a bowler hat in the window. I left the store twirling the hat around my finger.
The sun was setting behind my building as I approached it. I was pretty sure. I was about to look up when something landed on the ground right beside me.
It was Mr. Ainsley.
“How are you?”
Mr. Ainsley didn’t answer. So I asked him again.
Nothing.
I stared at him a minute. Then I put the new bowler hat on his head.
“You look wonderful in that hat,” said someone, walking by. Her friend nodded in agreement.
I gazed down at Mr. Ainsley…
Yes. I had to agree.
He did look good.
************
“Mr. Ainsley’s New Hat” appears in the Spring/Summer issue of Transition. Reprinted with the kind permission of the publisher.
If you enjoyed this story, please consider buying me a coffee.
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