Weblog entry:
- Meander
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You head home, meandering through Cambridge’s side streets in generally the right direction. The sky is quiet, veiled, blue-black: the color of a three days’-old bruise. Even the stars look a bit dim tonight, and you pull your coat closer to you.
You round a corner, and realize that you’re on a street you’ve walked many times with her. The sidewalks are empty now, but you can almost smell the purple stink of her cigarettes mixed with the bad beer you’d invariably been drinking. Her laugh rings clearly through the empty streets, and you smile — smile because you know her voice is mixing with another’s, two timezones and a thousand miles away. They’re happy there, but they’re so very there: if you round the corner to her house, knock on her door, she won’t answer. Can’t. Won’t.
You pause for a minute, thinking, then resume your walk. Two well-dressed women pass in the other direction, laughing; their voices sound brittle, cold. The tinkling of glass bells, shaken carefully by an old woman’s soft, fragile hand.
You walk a bit faster. Almost home now.
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