Worst day of the year. No sun, all snow. Inside you, you feel the blood thicken.
You step off the bus, start heading east on a little street connecting the main one to home. Usually your time for silent, ambling meditation. And Weezy in the headphones. But you don't love this street today. Pelted by unkind flakes, you let out a deep, long breath, longer and deeper than you knew you had in you.
You have the urge to kick something, so you do. A baby bunny of snow. It explodes around you. You feel better. But only for a second. You've drawn the attention of a woman getting out of her Volvo. How was her day, you wonder.
Her face says please don't rob me.
You miss the city something terrible on a day like this. When you come home and the house is dark and empty. Except for the cat and her eyes. You try to pet her and she bolts. Which makes sense somehow.
You're dreaming of a bar tended by a fat, bearded man who mumbles to himself. You divide your attention between your pint, the front door, a novel. You realize you're waiting for someone. But who? Ah, a friend. Remember that? Someone who understands. Who gets it. Who comes, in the style of poorly written endings, precisely when you can't stand yourself anymore.