Small steps forward. Typing on a BlackBerry. Rolling Rock. “National Treasure.” Cheesecake. Vibrator. Sleep. A day and a day and a day.
Travels are her life. North to South, East to West. When are you coming home they asked. And she wondered, where is home? Here, never there.
Two stories up, three from the top, she tried to peck out a life for herself one character at a time. Her typewriter would be her freedom.
She stares into the sea. She spots a speck and hopes it’s him. They shake their heads and walk by. She’s been here for ten years now.
Birches line the snow swept highway. Beyond my headlights they lurk, they leer. Bony fingers beckoning. I comply, listing to their arms.
Christmas music fills the air. The elf frolics and dances to happy applause, but she’s not happy. The men drool, and the metal pole is cold.