Weblog entry:
- Pedestrian
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The three final blocks of Mass Ave pass by you like the tight riff on a closed high hat: cars move quickly past you, indifferent and hustling as they shuttle their drivers toward home, or toward the city, or over and toward the river that runs between them. You walk past an old Seville, jet-black, fat, and resplendent as it idles, holding court over the streetlights and trolley lines that hang over it. The town is beautiful, its soccer moms and minivans having long since retired to sidewalk smokers and single-mic bars. The town is beautiful, but you don’t notice.
You don’t notice, because your thoughts are on the final few words the two of you shared, your last turning-away steps, the quick look over your shoulder as you saw her waving good-bye one final time. She called you two blocks later, and you both began to laugh as you should have earlier, as you used to on that quiet, cold porch, your hands freezing as you smoked. But the context has changed now, and you’re not sure—yet—if it’s for the better. You’re pretty sure it is, but walking requires far too much time, too much energy, too much effort in the steps and signs and significance of two hours past midnight. All you can do now is turn down the empty, wet street toward your apartment, haul out your keys, and open the door.
So, then, you’d better get started. Stop walking.
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- 15th day of January 2006.
- Filed under Story, Memory, Poetry.
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