"Midnight" Part 7

And this is how it ends.

Or rather, how it begins. 

---

The room is cold. 

I grope through the dim blackness to my right for the floor lap. I bump it, feel for the switch, and allow a mellow glow to penetrate the meager apartment space. I wearily walk over to the window, pull back the curtains, and stare down into the dimly-lit, foggy world below.

My home is nothing extravagant. I live in the big city, but not in luxury. It's a humble, studio apartment which means there's a kitchen, a bedroom, and a living room all shoved into one small space. The bathroom, thankfully, owns a door.

I sleep on the couch in the middle of the room. It's a foldout couch, but I'll admit on most nights I'm too lazy to haul the bed out from its comfortable hiding place. There's a long, stubby coffee table in front of the couch and a television in front of the table, nestled against the wall. The window is to the left of the television, and the kitchen is to the right. The bathroom is opposite the kitchen.

I remove my wet coat and hang it on a hook nailed into the bathroom door. I slip my sopping wet Nikes off and place them beneath the sink in the bathroom. I lay my soggy socks beside the shoes after which I immediately crinkle my nose and turn away.

Wet, pruned, smelly feet—go figure.

I lay the rest of my damp clothes across the toilet seat and quickly take a warm shower. Afterward, I pull on a white t-shirt and jersey shorts and collapse on the couch. 

It's been a long night. 

My phone beeps. I had forgotten it when I went out.

I lazily pick it up and flip open the black face. I have one missed call from a little past midnight—a few minutes after I had left.

It was her.

I freeze.

It's difficult to describe moments like this. Your limbs become rigid, but everything else begins to race. Your heart begins to pound away behind the cage inside your chest. Your mind is now fully alert and sprinting past approximately fifty-three and a half assumptions of why this person has called—expecting the worst, no doubt. You begin to sweat and slowly find the courage to move.

I clear the screen and my phone beeps once again—one new voicemail. My nerves shift into overdrive. I haven't heard from her in over a month. 

I glance wide-eyed out the window as pieces of our last conversation begin to surface. In short, things were complicated, feelings were awkward, but she didn't want to shut the door on our friendship.

So, she shut the window.

It's a different sort of pain standing outside the window of a person's life. You shove your face against the glass and peer inside, hoping to catch a glimpse of this person you were once so close to. 

And finally you do.

You see her laughing as she enters the room with other friends. They sit down and begin to talk with each other about their day and how things are going. They share stories, and they smile. They hug, and they laugh. They cry, but most of all, they love each other. You watch, disconnected and untouched, as she begins to grow and change in life, knowing that you were there, once. Perhaps you'll be blessed with a glance from her, but it’s nothing more than that. She finally leaves the room, and you're left outside standing with your face pressed against the glass like a peeping tom, wondering how you fell from grace.

It's a sickening, confusing, humiliating feeling. 

I glance at my phone as it begins to automatically dial my voicemail. I slowly press 

it against my ear. A female computer voice sprightly informs me that I have one, unheard voice message.

A few seconds of eternity later, I hear her.

I know it's late, but we need to talk. Call me back when you get this.

I listen to it about three times over, just to be sure. In the middle of the fourth repetition, I purposefully shut my phone and begin to turn it over in my hands. I pause and glance at the numbers on the clock hanging above the television.

6:32 a.m. She's asleep. Even if she's not, now is not the time. I'll call her back later today.

After about five minutes I set my phone on the table. I slowly push myself up from the couch and switch off the floor lamp behind me. A pale darkness invades the room once again as I lay down on the couch, pulling the covers up to my shoulders.

I stare at the ceiling. My body is tired and aching, but my mind and heart are wide awake. I'm nervous. I'm hopeful. Questions race. I don't think I'll ever fall asleep.

Midnight lasts so long on these nights when you can't forget.

I shift onto my left side and stare out the window. The atmosphere outside is turning gray. I hear cars honking in the distance. The world is waking up.

And somewhere behind it all, the sun is beginning to shine.

"Midnight" Part 6

These stairs and I tend to embrace a love and hate relationship. 

First floor. The steps are cold and indifferent. This building is fairly new, and the steel blocks show no mercy.

What I love about stairs: your steps are visually and dimensionally defined.

What I hate about stairs: with each step, you must defy gravity. Not that defying gravity in and of itself is a bad thing, per se, but defying gravity approximately 150 times in succession tends to wear out a person’s legs. 

And my legs are ready to give up the ghost.

Second floor. I grunt as I trip, catch the rail, and then haul myself up, around, and continue upward.

I saw a musician perform Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” once on a talk show. I enjoyed it not because I thought the guy was a great musician or that I like the song, but because he messed up quite a few times while performing it. Come to think of it, he messed up nearly the entire song, but it was still fun to watch.

It paints a stunningly accurate picture of our lives—so many of us are trying to climb this stairway to heaven, and we screw up entirely. 

Third floor. I pause. I’ve only climbed three flights and my knees are ready to give out. 

Some of us, however, don’t merely stumble over a step or two, but it feels like we tumble down and backward, end over end, until finally crashing into a broken heap at the bottom of these unforgiving steps. It was never intentional for most people, but it happened anyway. And the saddest part is that, of the few who actually pick themselves up, they take one look skyward, they see the distance, and they decide that it’s not worth the climb.

They’d be more comfortable at the bottom where there’s no longer a chance of falling down. 

But if they knew what was waiting at the top of the stairs, would they remain on the bottom floor?

Fourth floor. I wince. My right leg begins to cramp. I glance out the window to my right. The fog is still thickening. The streetlights below carry halos above their tired heads.

But the average person isn’t blessed with knowing the end of his story. For many, it seems like they fizzle out and fade into a tired, old memory—worn out and void of life. For others, they exit the stage in the midst of the play, just when things are getting good. A few, however, live wonderful lives, and they see their end coming. Perhaps there are some changes they would make, but for the most part, life is good.

Fifth floor. I’m out of breath now, two floors left. I pause and glance over the railing toward the bottom. From here, five stories is a long drop.

Why do people fall in love? Think about it. If love is supposed to be such a good thing, why isn’t it something more along the lines of ‘I’ve flown into love!’ or ‘I’ve climbed into love!’?  A verb that sounds uplifting. Isn’t falling, like falling down the stairs, usually a bad thing? 

Take, for instance, the devil. He rebels against God, gets thrown out of heaven, and falls to earth. Hell is considered to be in a rather southerly direction. Falling on your face was never a good thing. 

And falling five stories wouldn’t feel too good, either.

But, then again, who ever intends to fall in the first place? Who, unless they’re suicidal or crazy, determines to fall down five flights of stairs and land on their face?

I guess that’s why it’s called falling in love—it’s almost always never intentional. Your heart trips head over feet for someone and there’s nothing your head can do to stop it. 

But falling in love seems to only hurt when you fall in love alone.

Sixth floor. I purse my lips and begin the final push.

Climbing is a different story altogether. Ascending up to or over something is usually a good thing. 

Take, for instance, Jesus Christ. He rose from the dead after dying to save the world. People overcome terrible situations. You raise money, you rise to the occasion, or you lift a burden. All of this upward vocabulary sounds so positive. 

But it also sounds like a lot of work. It sounds intentional.

After all, when you fall, you lift yourself up. But it’s nice when you don't have to lift yourself up alone.

Seventh floor. I sigh in relief. I don’t care to look back. I’ve seen the view so many times before. I habitually turn right, walk three doors down, and stop in front of the door on the left. I dig through the change in my right pocket and feel for the key. I put it in the lock and turn it halfway to the right.

It's almost over. I sigh as I push the door open and step into the darkened space.

"Midnight" Part 5

I love it when the heavens meet the earth.

26th street, I yawn. Clouds are beginning to gather around my feet, carefully searching out the shadowy corners of the city. Lights stretch out and sounds dampen as the morning dwindles on. I enjoy fog as much as rain, almost as much as newly fallen snow, but not quite as much as pizza on a Saturday night with a few friends and a movie.

Yes, one could say that as far as material things go, pizza is my first love.

But my memory is like this fog. 

Imagine a lamp—the old-fashion, kerosene lamp used before the invention of the light bulb—being carried through a fog at night. It's not blinding, but pleasantly dim, swaying slowly this way and that, suspended and relaxed as it wanders through the milky atmosphere. It doesn't ignite the world around it, but the world around it can see it coming. 

Like a fog, I have trouble remembering things clearly. I know—it's a funny thing to hear from a young man of only twenty-three. In fact, when you think about it, it's ridiculous. For me, though, it seems true enough—unless my measurement of how clearly memories should surface is slightly lacking.

Memories, I believe, require more than just a picture in your head. Perhaps that's why I find them difficult to conjure correctly. I think memories should incorporate not only images and the senses but also emotion.

And there's the difficult part—replaying emotion.

25th street. A few cars rumble past, passing through street puddles like an early morning stretch. 

Of course a person can easily attach a scrolling marquee to an image in their head, flashing, 'This is where I felt betrayed,' and then attempt to recreate the feeling of betrayal. But what weight is carried when an emotion is just a title in your head? Where is the connection to the heart?

A cat mournfully sings from a passing alleyway. I glance left as two green eyes follow me from behind someone else's trash.

She, however, isn't foggy at all. I remember everything—every image, every sound, every sense, and I feel every emotion from the night she did not say goodbye.

24th street. One more block. 

Some might mistake my brokenness for romance—like a Hollywood love story. It's not so shallow. There wasn't a flirtatious first date and a first kiss after our serendipitous meeting, nor was there a second date followed by a heated night of passionate, guilt-free sex where the stars fell in line and the heavens declared that this is a good idea, so now it's time to move in with each other before we finally decide to marry and seal the deal with a ceremonial kiss. But then, for some unexplainable, unjustifiable reason, she decides that it's better that we 'just be friends' and breaks my heart into a million pieces, leaving me to cope with the pain, alone, while she flaunters off with someone new.

No, this is more gut-wrenching and complex. 

It's about a broken friendship.

23rd street. Flustered and exhausted, I cross the street. The effort of walking fifty city blocks is nothing compared to struggling through a few vivid memories.

My apartment building is at the end of the street. The fog is beginning to thicken. Street lights trail into the night as the plunk, plunk, plunk from a draining gutter echoes somewhere in the distance. My body is tired, but my mind is racing. 

Replaying heartbreak is a dangerous game. It's like shouting at an angry man or diving through loose snow in the mountains. Something's going to collapse. Memories begin to flood over like a river after rain. Assumptions well up from deep within confused situations and without warning an avalanche of misconceptions erupts into devastating, heart-wrenching, emotional pain.  

An old man, bent and tired, shuffles past on my left. I don't say anything. He mumbles reminders to himself.

Don't forget the cat food. Poor kitty looks so hungry.

Someone intelligent and wiser than me once said that assumptions are the termites of relationships.

This collapsing framework is full of them.

Droplets begin to form and trail down the silver surfaces of dimming street-lamps.

I love fog, but not in relationships, and especially not in memories. Even in painful situations, I want to remember how I felt. I don't want to become numb. It makes me think that my heart is growing cold, or even worse, turning to stone.

A heart of ice is infinitely easier to melt than a heart of stone. 

And I fear the day when I don't feel it anymore. I fear the day when her image is as numb and indifferent as my hands on this wet and chilly night.

I stop at 806, 23rd street and gaze upward. I can hardly see my seventh story window through the fog. I slowly climb the steps toward the entrance and squeeze past the glass door.

No mail. I don't know why I check. It's passing 5 a.m.. Habit, I guess. The elevator is out of order. I forgot about that. I glance toward the foot of the stairs…

…the seven stories of stairs.

Perfect.

It's going to be a long climb up

For the Sake of Beauty...Part Dos.

We all do dumb things. Some of us hold firecrackers too long. Some of us attempt the atomic challenge at Buffalo Wild Wings (and wake up with regret). Some of us pet the cat the wrong direction (and wake up scarred). And some of us even try to skate off rooftops and end up parkouring the concrete with our faces.

A few weeks ago, I did a very dumb and very foolish thing...

I left angry.

The story goes something like this: My friend (who shall remain nameless...again...because that's what you do in blogs) and I were having dinner and some margaritas with a couple before I had to catch a flight back home. Now, there have been a few times that I've drug my feet and have been late for a flight. Once was because I was in the middle of a serious conversation with the same friend, and I didn't want to leave it unfinished. 

I blame the other two occasions on ridiculously long TSA lines (45 mins plus). 

Granted, I work for the airlines, so it wasn't that difficult to catch another flight...even if it was the next morning. 

But that's beside the point. 

So anyway, I was kind-of dragging my feet (but not by much). She reminded me that it was time to leave, and what I remember saying was, "Alright, let's go," and then her saying, "Okay, well let me use the bathroom first."

Another five minutes.

Then, we finally hit the road. The airport's only like...ten minutes away. Cut-off time for checking in bags (I had a bag) was in five.

Psh, we can make it, I thought.

And then, out of nowhere, she says, "You always do this!"

We've had this argument once before.

The last time I missed my flight, I had to stay overnight on her couch, so she had to come back to pick me up. She was upset then because she felt like I didn't appreciate her time and potential plans. It seemed like, to her, that I missed my flights on purpose...just so I could hang out with her a little longer.

Which may have been a subconscious truth...because as you may have guessed (especially if you've read part one)...I'm crazy about the girl.

And that, of course, complicates everything.

But! ...it wasn't a deliberate, conscious decision. 

Anyway, I tried to explain that I didn't miss flights on purpose. I only missed that one flight so I could finish, what I thought, was a very important conversation. 

I know. I know. You're probably thinking, "Sean! You missed a flight...just so you could finish talking?!"

Yup. 

I fly for free. Different priorities. 

Sue me. 

Anyway, we got over it (I thought) and moved on.

But then, here I am, and she's arguing the exact same thing she did almost a month before. 

I think the part that ticked me off the most was that she said, "You do this all the time!" when I had, in fact, only done it once. 

(I fly through DFW a lot)

I'm a stickler for accuracy...and for not being wrong, of course.

I know. Petty. 

I let her vent for a little bit as we drove to the airport...but right as we drove beneath the barrier arm and entered the airport...something snapped. All I could feel was this blame, shame, and misunderstanding literally pouring out of her mouth and over me...wave after wave...and I wasn't going to have it any more!

"You make me feel like shit!" is all I remember saying. And I don't cuss often...despite what you've heard. And there was something about love thrown in my tirade somewhere, but I'm pretty sure it was covered up by all the excrement. 

But there is something I remember very well. 

She pulled up to the drop-off point. Now, you have to understand that every time before, I've left her with a hug, a kiss on the cheek, a see you soon, a call me when you make it home. 

This time, regardless of what was said, all I know is that I grabbed my bags, slammed the door before she could finish talking, and walked away angry. 

Some of you might blame it on the two 'ritas. Some might just call me an asshole (which I was). Some of you might pull the double-punch and blame both. But regardless, as the minutes passed, as I got my boarding pass, as I made it through security with my bags, as I found my seat on the plane, as we taxied away from the gate, as I sent her a quick text saying, "On. Love you," as a hasty, makeshift patch to what I had just done...as I wrote out an even longer apology...regret began to flood my chest.

You know the feeling.

That painful ache of realization that you just did something you couldn't erase...and that in your selfishness, you said things you could never, ever take back. 

An hour and a half later, I made it safely to the ground, but I went home in silence and fell asleep.

And then I woke up. And for whatever reason, the only thing I could sense was that I had made a terrible, terrible mistake in leaving like that. What if that had been our last meeting? What if, God forbid, I never saw her after that?

But even more importantly, if I loved her as much as I said I did, if I loved Christ as much as I claim, why would I even allow myself to touch the surface of such heartless words and careless exits...no matter the reason?

            "Be angry, and yet do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger..."

                                                                                          -Ephesians 4:2

I heard that verse many times growing up. But what surprised me more was what the rest of it said:

       "Therefore, laying aside falsehood, speak truth each one of you with his neighbor, for we are members of one another. Be angry, and yet do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and do not give the devil an opportunity. He who steals must steal no longer; but rather he must labor, performing with his own hands what is good, so that he will have something to share with one who has need. Let no unwholesome word proceed from your mouth, but only such a word as is good for edification according to the need of the moment, so that it will give grace to those who hear. Do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, by whom you were sealed for the day of redemption. Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving each other, just as God in Christ also has forgiven you. -Ephesians 4:25-32 

In a matter of less than five minutes, I became the antithesis of that entire passage. And no matter what she had said...none of it was her fault, and she didn't deserve to be spoken to in such a manner. 

In those few moments, what did I steal? What did I tear down in her instead of build up? And what does that say about my "love" for her and about our friendship?

Instead of focusing on the beauty of who God has created her to be, instead of listening to her and trying to see the situation(s) from her point of view, instead of approaching her concerns with a humble heart, instead of trying to understand, I lashed out in some selfish, adolescent rant in an attempt to prove myself right.

And I never could have been more wrong.

So, like before, to her, though I can't say it enough, I say, "Thank you for your friendship, for your patience, and I apologize for how I've treated you."

And to everyone else, never let your pride be so important that you tear someone down, especially someone you love. 

And never leave angry. 

"Midnight" Part 4

I haven't seen the stars in almost two years.

30th street, I sigh. I lift my eyes and gaze upward into a cloud-covered blackness carried by city lights and sounds. I probably look lost and foolish walking down the sidewalk with my head craned back, staring toward a dismal heaven. Big cities aren't meant for stargazing. It's one of the many sacrifices, I guess. I lost a sense of 

beauty when I moved here.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy the city. The lights, the sounds, the speed; It's a sensory symphony of modern man. There's always something going on, even at 3 a.m.

Especially at 3 a.m.

But I come from a natural place—nothing like this chaotically organized, colossal maze of concrete and steel. There are mountains and trees where I'm from. Springtime is explosive—a proverbial picture of God speaking. Summer is thick and full of activity. Autumn is Earth splashing paint across the hillside. Winter is pure. The stars are infinite.

It's true. I counted, once. 

But as I grew older, I ceased to see the beauty. It's like staring at the same point for too long without blinking. The center blackens until all that remains is the outer-rim.

Try it sometime. 

In the end, I needed to blink. I needed to experience the world outside my own. I didn't want to fade through life like everybody else. So, I moved here. 

A week afterward, I met her.

29th street. A low rumble of thunder penetrates from somewhere far above. A few drops of dying rain struggle toward the earth.

Actually, I ran into her…literally. 

It was just outside of a convenient store on a Sunday afternoon around 2:30. She was carrying chocolate, and I was jogging around the corner. She was wearing glasses, and I was wearing headphones.  She was putting change in her purse, and I was looking the other way. Not on purpose, of course. I thought I heard a dog barking behind me. We converged in front of the double-glass doors outside of the store and tumbled over each other onto the city-stained sidewalk.

We were best friends after that.

28th street, I glance upward. The clouds are beginning to break.

However, somewhere between me helping her up from the littered concrete and my most recent birthday, like these worn-out Nike sneakers, everything fell apart. 

Or something fell apart, and the rest followed.

In fact, it reminds me of Jenga, the game where you stack the wooden blocks into a miniature Leaning Tower of Pisa and then slide individual blocks out one by one until it collapses into a laughable mess that the loser is left privileged to clean up. Or it reminds me of this homeless man stretched out across the bus stop bench. Perhaps he had an organized, happy life once-upon-a-time, a life that made sense. But one by one, pieces were shoved out of place until the whole of it came crashing down and left him lying here in a cluttered pile of unintentional, circumstantial consequence.

27th street. The traffic light flickers sporadically above me.

Whatever it reminds me of, my heart is a suffering heap of flesh and emotion, and I'm the loser left to clean up.

And I have no idea where to begin

"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.

"Midnight" Part 2

Everyone has a breaking point.

I never did like that phrase. It conjures up an illusion that we're acting, wearing ill-fitted masks and employing facades we never reveal until it's absolutely unintentional. Does that make sense? A breaking point—an unintentional breaking point.

If you say it slow enough, it seems to make sense. 

Maybe.

The rain isn't letting up, and I'm far from getting dry. The next store is a good two blocks away, and I'm miserable.

46th street, I mutter, never close enough.

I hate chocolate. No, I actually like chocolate, I just hate the memories. Actually, I love the memories. I just hate that they are, in fact, only memories. So why am I stumbling through this rain shower at 2 a.m. trying to find a store with chocolate that ignites memories I hate to replay?

Good question. Breaking point.

And my breaking point was her, and she loved chocolate.

And this rain is making me cold, reminding me of her.

A black cat skittered across the street, losing its hind legs in a stream by the curb and then its body in a trashcan. That seems to happen more often—black cats crossing my path. I've never been the superstitious type, but with all my bad luck lately, I may join the club. But it wasn't bad luck I was having; it was just me. That's what hurts the most: knowing that you are the bad luck. You are, in fact, her black cat. And like Trash-Can-Kitty, you're soaked and stumbling through the filthiest, lowest point of your life.

And you're alone.

47th street , I read as I pass beneath the sign and glance for cars. I think the store 

is on 48th, but in this weather, I'm not so sure.

I really don't know what happened. I never saw the array of dominoes that fell against me, finally knocking me through my own breaking point. I've always considered myself strong. I guess that was my greatest weakness and ultimate downfall.

It's like tumbling into the ring with a Ninja, believing yourself to be a natural master of Kung-Fu, when you are, in fact, just a 135 pound weakling containing no experience with round-house kicks whatsoever except for the one that's soon-to-be introducing itself to your well-manicured face.

What's our measurement of "strong" anyway?

And what does "strong" describe, emotionally speaking, except that we conceal our feelings better than others? I've always heard it said that bottling emotion is a bad habit that soon leads to explosive situations.

Then again, 'A fool vents all his feelings, but a wise man holds them back.' That's a proverb, I think.

The lonely traffic light blinks incessantly red as I pass underneath. 

I love colors in the rain. They're saturated and much more vibrant than on ordinary days. They're rich with life, even lonely traffic lights. Perhaps that's another reason why I love rain so much. Perhaps I have the potential to be vibrant and colorful in the rain instead of ordinary. Perhaps that's why I'm walking in the rain. I guess I just need to find some color first. 

And when I do, I guess I just need to light up and flash a bit.

48th street, I sigh. There isn't a gas station or an open store. There isn't even a closed store. I turn a few circles, as if it would help, but it doesn't. There's still no store.

How inconvenient.

I slowly make my way back from where I came. Back home. Home is a studio apartment in a seven-story building on 23rd street. 

Twenty-five blocks, I scold myself. My feet begin to ache. I could keep walking in hopes of finding another store, but twenty-five blocks is my breaking point for tonight. 

The rain is letting up a little. Small rivers begin to rush against the curb toward thirsty storm drains. A few pieces of trash float along like lost ships at sea, carried wherever the current desires.

It reminds me of being a kid. I remember folding paper ships and sending them to their doom at the hands of curbside waterways. Then again, I didn't think like that as a child. It was terribly fun to chase the boats as they bobbed and twisted in the murky-brown water. Eventually, they would either sink or disappear into the gaping mouth of a storm drain, lost to whatever monsters lurk beneath our feet. I lived in a smaller town then. It was nothing like the big city.

I feel like that now. A boat tossed in the rain, rushing out of control toward a deep, dark hole in the ground along with all the other trash.

And for all I know, this ship has already slipped over the edge