"Midnight" Part 3

My toes feel like raisins.

You remember, like those Sun-Maid raisins in the small, red box your mother gave you when you were a kid. You wanted a snack, which meant you wanted cookies, which meant your mother gave you raisins. Mothers tend to do that—replace the good stuff with healthy stuff only grown-ups like. They refuse to understand.

Actually, my toes feel like prunes. Raisins are too small.

I never did like prunes.

45th street, I pause. I glance left down Jackson Ave. for Mr. Jackson Ave., but he seems to have stumbled off after some other destiny. I sulk beneath the traffic-light and wander on.

The street is empty like a Sunday morning drive. A few pieces of paper melt inside collecting rain puddles, drowning information no one cares to read. The dark buildings tower over me like empty monologues asking questions, but like usual, I don't answer. 

Dominating structures never care to listen...

...but if walls could tell stories, I'd be the first in line to hear them speak.

44th Street. I kick a lonely beer bottle toward the curb. I watch as it skips over the edge and plunks into the stream. It clinks off the bottom and bobbles down the street behind me toward a nearby storm drain.

That one's on me, I mumble as it quietly slips between the iron teeth.

Do you drink? She asks me as I trip across 44th street.

Not anymore, I reply indifferently.

Why not? She tilts her head, faking concern, allowing those deep, curious eyes to make up for it.

It never helps, I state, matter-of-factly. I still wake up with me.

She fades into a passing street-lamp as I approach 43rd street.

Flashbacks are like forgotten songs. You're in some random place and out of nowhere this recognizable tune catches your attention. You gravitate toward it because it's familiar, and then you remember why.  Every thought, every feeling, and every image attached to that song invades your mind like a foggy introduction. After a few seconds, the uncertainties clear and the wounds are re-opening. 

And like a madman, you willingly continue to listen. 

Like a madman, you willingly continue to hurt. 

Like a madman, you willingly continue to play back your rejection again, and again, and again, until finally...

32nd street.

I stop. I glance up at the elevated sign and turn around. The rain has let up for now. A few lazy drops embrace the sidewalk as they tumble down from tired rooftops. A worn-out yellow taxicab drenched in mud and midnight passengers wanders around the corner and passes by without a second thought. 

Time flies when you're having flashbacks.

Actually, it doesn't. I just got lucky. Time saunters off for a stiff drink when pain is involved.       

31st street, I say in habitual fashion as I continue to walk. A black cat watches me from across the street.

That's right. You stay put, kitty. I've had enough tonight.