Snapping my fingers

So where do we start here. She was silent. It was just the facts now. She had extricated herself. Looked at the person sitting in front of her. He was just a face she could read. There was a small hollow of sadness for that wasted comfort they shared. For how he knew her and how it would break him. But she did not care. Did not care enough even to give him anything but the facts. Not the regret, the guilt, the betrayal. None of those emotions that she knew he wanted, deserved. Couldn't help looking at her watch. Wondered if it would take more than an hour. She couldn't wait to be taken in, in those arms. A smile almost made its way out. She flinched and focussed back to the table, the coffee mug, at him. His eyes, that had a hundred regrets. She softened. Wanted to console. There wasn't anything he could have done different. Cliched, but it was her, not him. It really was her. She had looked up at that smile and she had lost herself. She was alive in the words he had wrapped around her. She couldn't shake him away. She couldn't forget and then she forgot. It would have happened. Even if he cared for her more than he did now. Now again, where were the facts. Where were the dates, the incidents, the reason. She opened her mouth and drew a blank. Why do his eyes search me. She wanted to go home. She wasn't here anymore. This was over.

Everyone looked around. She was sobbing.

Anonymity

Chapter:1

A parched throat is what I first feel. Slowly blink an eyelid open. And then the other. See skin. Cannot make out the room. It's a bed alright. Sit up. There's a slight chill. Tug at the bedsheets. Search for a clock. Hope it isn't too early. See my handbag. Totter to it. Pull out the cell phone. 6:37. The comfort of no voice-mails and a hundred frantic missed calls. The bathroom door. The mirror. Swollen eyes. Find my clothes. Find water. Find the front door.

The early morning chill, strangely refreshing. Bury deeper in to the muffler. A tree-lined pavement. Don't recognize it. Walk to the lights. "oak lane". Search my mind. Turn back. Look at the house. A vague sigh for the memory that will eventually get lost. Wave down the taxi and ask for the train station. Cup the coffee a little tighter and stub that cigarette as I see the train pull in. Empty blue seats. Move away from the stain. Why aren't they plastic. The crowded hills roll away. The mist hangs. (like a chandelier?). The familiar city slowly pulls in.

Turn the key. Turn up the heat. Switch on the crackle in the TV. Change into thick pajamas. Put some milk in the microwave. Slide into the seat by the window and watch the world steadily speed up. Time to pick at it with short neat phrases.

...

Extend myself
In the grey smog,
Touch cheeks
And taste salt.