She sits down on the cold, wet cement bench that stretches on forever in both opposite ways. Sighing, she places the headphones over her ears, presses play, and closes her eyes to the heavy, fast-paced, and mournful piano. Knees to chest, she is holding herself together after a day of behind-back whispers and long pitying stares from people she never even knew existed before.
It is common news how he broke her, taking the metaphorical shotgun she always kept a few inches from her head and pulling the trigger right inside her heart.
Oh, what were her innumerous insecurities and abandonment issues compared to this? Days spent in agonizing scrutiny over the wounds bleeding openly for the general public to see. She felt as if she didn’t own her own existence.
Hands misplaced, Russian poets and glass jars: these things invaded every nook and cranny of her mind; a flashbulb memory that wouldn’t disappear, no matter what decibel of song shook it.
Eyes closed, she is wishing herself to a place not found in the past. Leather-bound books surround her, paint the walls in their shelves. An elegant silk ball gown adorns her frame – a lovely soft pink. There is nothing but the sound of her breathing and the whispers of words calling her name affectionately.
“I could disappear here,” she thinks, twirling around to find the space behind her a paradise of comfort. A large easy chair sits next to fireplace; a stack of books waits in front of it, holding a steaming cup of coffee ready to flood her veins. “Yes. Yes, I could disappear here, indeed.”
But she opens her eyes, and is sucked underneath the flow again.
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