Whitman sees ships at dock

I was sitting on a brick planter outside of her downtown office complex, that time of day when afternoon and evening depend on your relation to the hard-edge shadows of the buildings. The day had gone cold here in the shade, and I clutched at my elbows and kept my jaw tight against chattering. I hadn’t really planned on being here except that I was forced to drive into town for an unpaid parking ticket.

But that’s a lie, isn’t it? I knew my day would end up here from the moment I got the summons or the warrant or whatever it’s called when you owe the county a hundred and forty three dollars. Maybe it was low impulse control, maybe it was fate. I guess it depended on who you asked. Mostly I was looking for a justice in the world, for her to say or for me to say what we’d spent so many months in mutual nonexistence not saying. I sat there, tapping both my feet with hands thrust deep into jacket pockets, trying to keep my extremities feeling alive.

People started coming out of the building in spurts, like each elevator load was a pump of blood. These people probably hadn’t been smiling on the way in, but now some were, and I wondered how they lived their lives when so much time was spent in the thing they dreaded.

Then it was her, talking to a girl I met at a party once where I had kept my mouth shut and took awkward sips of beer. She was beautiful still—I don’t mean the girl from the party—she still walked with that bounce that worked against the sunken slump of her shoulders, how she never really wore makeup anyway and how her hair was blowing all over and how her nose was starting to go a little pink already from the cold. I didn’t want to be here then, I didn’t have the right. The silence between us had been the justice I deserved. She saw me and froze, not smiling, not frowning, just blank-faced recognition, maybe with her head going through how sadly I was presenting myself these days, how goddamn pathetic to be sitting on a brick planter unshaven wearing an old jacket and trying to work up the nerve to look away. This was just what I wanted, and it felt awful.