Tiny Stories And Concepts

City in the Snow

The wind held a mist with it. Not enough to find shelter. But enough to make your bones shake under your skin. No one would recommend standing against the wind, especially not her frail little self. The coat didn't help with that. It made her look like a lost child, wrapped in a strangers cloak. The upturned collar was up to her ears, and wisps of hair whipped around the edge.
She didn't know how long she'd been out there. But when she took a moment to notice her surroundings, it was snowing. She didn't know when the mist had turned to snow. She took a shaky breath, and watched it dissipate against the streetlights. When had she died, to not even know this city or understand it's lifeblood? She watched the snow fall for a few moments more, maybe hoping, somehow, the living air and lives around her could be absorbed.
Without looking back she walked back to the apartment and up the stairs, not seeing the thirty year old carpet, or the peeling wallpaper, and all the bits of glass barely swept into the corners from nights long past. Her brain was as empty and numb as her fingertips, not capable of registering anything. Through the door, into the living room, an item of clothing peeled off and dropped onto the floor randomly, one at a time. By the time she reached her bed, she wore only briefs and a tank top. Her arms limp, her steps dragging, her eyes empty. She walked to those giant bay windows, staring across that cold, dark, but living city, and she had her first actual thought. "I'll get through it."
She closed her eyes for a second. A little, tiny, trickle of relief seeped across her shoulders. She glanced at the bed, and at him sitting upright, just staring silently at her. A sheet covered his lap, but the red city lights lit his bare chest and tired eyes. That's what she loved about those eyes. They asked but did not demand; they comforted but didn't pity. She walked over and sat, sinking into the bed. He scooted up and placed his chin on her shoulder, sliding one hand down the top of her thigh. His touch was not sensual. It was warm. She looked down at it, and waited for him to notice. His fingers only had to cover the marks once for them to stop and curl. He said nothing, just signed deeply, sadly. His palm rested over the worst of it. She placed her hand over his. An apology.
"We'll get through it." He said softly.