The city loves me in ways no person ever has. It listens to my fierce footsteps, the stomping of my boots against the dirty pavement, the clicking of my heels when we went on our first date, and now the trudging of my sneakers (homeless).
It sees me smile ear to ear when I see the windows on its skyscrapers reflect the orange glow of the afternoon sun. It empathizes with my frustrated groan long past midnight when I can't flag down a taxi to take me home. It hears my satisfied sigh in winter as the first sip of a morning coffee warms my throat and thaws my freezing hands. It celebrates with me when I'm on top of the world and cries for me when life gets hard. The city sees and hears and feels every moment of every day of my life. The city understands.
The city is always quieter at night. And in winter, when everyone is hiding behind bundles of turtle sweaters and scarves. When snow falls, it is heaped and stained with filth, pale twinkling quartz to dark chunks of dirt. When the sun clamps its stinging hands on the clouds and forces them to the side, it shoots its slanting warmth on the snow and burns it deep into tiny sparkling rivers.
Burnt into a memory of the cold.
YOU ARE READING
Entropy
Short StoryA story about love, despair, and chaos, told in fragments. Her screams echoed inside the glass coffin. I heard them. She scratched her fingernails bloody on the hard case that kept her inside. I felt the blood trickle down my own hands. She pounded...
