Part IV


well though it may be warm, the clouds gathered together in the shroud of the night sky decide to spontaneously erupt in a tropical sort of way, billowing in blotching sheets down the windshield, wipers working to clear the vision forward, the red lights of cars behinds blurring. in this sudden tempest she blinks her eyes at herself in the window, surprised at the coincidental mood of nature. here she is, back at this street. “it’s here,” gripping the back of the driver’s seat, “make a right at the light.”
she had left it sobbing. now she is calm, and the sky is loosening itself around her. how she can sense it, how she can smell it in the air, electrical. how many years have passed? how old has she become, stretch marks on her side? turning past the gnarled tree writhing on the corner. the iron grates over windows. the small rectangles of dying grass leading to concrete porches with screen doors. fading colors of yellow, brown, red.
little boxes of life, rented, sold to families who sit in the living room grouped on worn sofas around a small tv with bad reception. there. this one. 4209. this squat home that years tore lines into her forehead, furrows between her eyes. the sound of dishes breaking. learning the hard way how everything we do affects one another. how we tear at each other every day to stay the same, to stay in control. not accepting nothing. Not looking past the surfaces always crumbling away into some failure. nowhere to go, nowhere to turn but holding on to what is there, what is sure. and that becomes anger, immediate, incessantly gathered, easily spent. anger, apathy. reassurances of the radio voice, settling into patterns, statistics. listless sex in the blue light of the tv. numbers caught in the web. led up to the gaping mouth of something looming, many eyed, inhuman. sucked dry, bitter, harmless. the thick tongue of cheap wine raised in the night. the sound of dishes breaking. dogs asserting themselves. airplanes passing overhead on their routines.
she hands over her money and steps out of the taxi into the rain. she stands there, feeling the rain warm, gathering itself into her hair, weighing down her clothes. dripping, dripping. she does not mind it. she has nothing to lose. she has nothing to hide, keep safe, keep dry. she is ready. she is ready to clamp her mouth down onto something filled with life.
come into her net. he is not yet there, the window dark. the rain outside of her. how she wept when she left. with her burden to carry, to unleash into the world, dripping. now there is nothing left. outside of her. she breathes in, the rain dripping from the tip of her nose. to take, to give. to become that which she wasn’t. this hollow in her belly. breathing. to die to live. rain, dripping. dripping

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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