An Excerpt of a Memory

We walked back from the pub that night, full and tired. The streets were lit only by the occasional porch light left on. Most residents were indoors by then, except the few smokers or those without an inside to return to. Even stray cats who had become wild might choose a different neighborhood to sleep, but I found the trash-lined streets perfectly fine. The Mothers who yelled at their children by day—even they—rested by night. It was a place that probably housed some drug exchanges and perhaps heard a gunshot from time to time, but it was a place I would call home—if only for that night.

I straggled in the back on the narrow sidewalk, having to pick up my pace when we crossed roads. The conversation ahead of me was a definite after-dinner topic—something slightly scholarly, but subject to be forgotten the second we reached the apartment. I didn’t hear much of it, though, for the only thing on my mind were my feet. After walking downtown for several afternoons, my sneakers had begun to rub on my ankles, and in an awkward attempt to shift my feet, my socks slipped down. This distraction followed me all the way back until I was finally relieved to flop the shoes off altogether.

The second floor apartment overlooked but more apartments and neat lines of paralleled- parked cars (with the exception of mine). It was cold and dark when we returned, but as soon as we clicked on the lamp and began stirring around, it was as if we had never left it. So, there we were, handling another night of uneasy transitions in getting to bed, followed by hours of lying awake in the dark.

The next day was a Wednesday and he had to work the lunch shift. I rolled over on the couch pretending to actually wake up that slowly while he got ready to leave. He tossed the apartment keys at my feet, nodded, and walked out apathetically.

Stronger Than Evocative

All I feel is the wind and rain slapping me in the face along to the music of Ben Folds. The gray sky is going to try trapping me here, I just know it. This town wants me. Its gravity has hold of me tightly, but I will find a way out. I will cut the cords of this lesson-less repetition and run.

Please Select Fuel Type

I am reminded, here, of when I was just a girl. Not a girl playing hop-scotch in church dresses, but the girl who thought she was a woman. A girl who had boundaries and kept them—who imagined things, and left it at that. She made mistakes, I imagine, but she probably used to regret them.

Remove Nozzle and Begin Fueling

Sometimes I remember feeling like home here. When it didn’t decide to move away from me. But mostly, I kept running anyway. And I will still. Because I had left and found new comforts, a new kind of solace. I had made new memories; doing everything I could to erase the old, good ones. There was a time when a year was nothing—a piece of cake. I could give up on my failed explanations, and start fresh. But I know that gibberish is for New Year’s Eve suckers. Fresh start is just a fancy way of saying you might finally be. . . okay. But just like that, "okay" didn't seem like very much at all.

Would You Like a Receipt?
No.

I can feel the pressure beneath my gas pedal, and my stomach turns. I am weaker than I thought. I am stronger than I thought. This is goodbye again, and I know it’s going to be a long one. The relief sets in as the buildings vanish and I’m allowed to imagine I’m anywhere. It’s quiet, comfortable, and I am almost back. But I left most of myself where it where won’t leave. In that insecure, evocative, walking home.


I near my street and am flooded with the lights of the city. But, no matter what, all I can see are those little, red, fluorescent lines that make up the stagnant image of 3:07a.m.