This week’s word for the Trifecta Challenge is “idle;” the meaning we are focused on is:
Here is my thought, titled “Manual Transmission”
It was the end of morning rush hour. He sat low-slung in the armchair closest to the window, looking despondently out over the city street below his fifth-floor walk-up. Leaning closer to the sill, he could see the tops of the heads of people hastily moving into their day: to the bus, to the subway, to taxi cabs waiting impatiently at curbs, to the bodega for coffee. He seemed to never rush anymore.
Accompanied by the sound of creaking bones, he pulled himself from the bottom of the chair and tightened his sweater against an imaginary chill. With a sigh, he shuffled to the kitchenette in hopes something new had miraculously appeared in the fridge. He only moved in first gear these days. He grunted as he pulled the handle down on the appliance, which he guessed was his elder by at least 50 years; his conjecture was more than a slight exaggeration. The refrigerator compressor shook the machine abruptly—or was it laughing at him again—as he stared at the back of the top shelf, wondering if the dusty eggs had mummified chicks inside them. He swung the door closed with feigned violence, as if the refrigerator was at fault for not being filled with sustenance for his suddenly growling innards. With an indignant final shudder, the door swung slowly closed on rusted hinges while the compressor fell silent, as if to put the period on the end of their conversation.
After deliberation, he decided it was in his interest to venture to the bodega to pick up some food. He put on his crumpled cap, confirmed that his keys were in his sweater pocket, and wandered out. Every trip down the stairs seemed to take longer, but as he finally reached the bottom landing, he firmly decided that today was a new day. No longer would he be idle, allowing the days to pass him without meaning, activity, or purpose. He crossed to the store with a smile.