Friday, March 21, 2014
This is not a conversation.
She drove the same ways under the same skies, preferred the alone times to those when everything was filled up, the seats with bodies, the air with talk. There's no sky like a blanket under which to sleep. There is no desolation in driving because only then was she free to think of him.
She drove up and sat in front of Maggie's house, turned off the ignition. She needed to be held. The rosebushes that lined the walkway were sprouting buds, pink, tight, wound to a point. Maggie's house was dark, the drapes drawn and when she rang the bell, no one answered.