The night was melting over the stretch of time, coated in rain. Not a harsh night that may come to mind. It was a mild, promising darkness that blanketed the town. As if the storm stepped aside, making room for the wandering souls.
I was working my way by the quaint storefronts, window gazing at stores long closed for the night. I took great joy in watching as the raindrops which stuck to the glass cumulated and fell restlessly and silent to the sidewalk, and sometimes onto my boots. This little puddle, pulling itself from the slumbers seemed to compel me. So I continued this dreamlike state of observation until I saw a shop still engulfed in piercing fluorescent light. My legs, almost subconsciously, sped up against the ground, and I stood curiously in front of the shop. Scarlet Neal’s Fortunes scribbled recklessly on the stone steps that lined the store. The letters consumed each other, hardly legible in this wet reserved state of the town. My bold curiosity quickly turned to embarrassment as I realized there was still someone in the shop. In fact, there were two people. One tired but eager looking woman sat at an awkwardly shaped table. Her parallel, a man who seemed to be extremely upset. But for some reason, they didn’t seem to see me. And in the hush of the night, I could make out their words.
The woman, presumably Scarlet Neal, spoke in a slow and powerful manner, “You are being irrational.”
This quickly evoked a tempered response, “How am I being irrational, I sit here being told that the entire career that has taken up my life is going to fail me. And you expect me to..”
The woman didn’t stop him, but his voice seemed to trail aside. She started up again, her voice growing stronger as new waves surpassing the tide, “I understand you are upset, and you have a right to be. But to quit your job on a whim isn’t going to serve you well. I tell all of my clients this, that while their future may be daunting, acting out on this new knowledge launders no difference in your fate.”
His head didn’t quite seem to hear this. He was in another place. He pushed his chair away from the table and grabbed his bag. He made his way to the door, and left, fuming. His features lost to the darkness, I watched his silhouette grow smaller in my eyes.
I join myself once more in the heavy drift along the streets, and I can still feel the buzz of his chair, of the rubber stoppers against the tile. Pushing away from something he wished so desperately to unhear. I wonder if he saw me standing from inside the shop, that I never dare to go in. If he knew that I witnessed his life start to unravel from the worn stoop. Maybe
I am just another slow-moving body, drawn along by the rain.
I was working my way by the quaint storefronts, window gazing at stores long closed for the night. I took great joy in watching as the raindrops which stuck to the glass cumulated and fell restlessly and silent to the sidewalk, and sometimes onto my boots. This little puddle, pulling itself from the slumbers seemed to compel me. So I continued this dreamlike state of observation until I saw a shop still engulfed in piercing fluorescent light. My legs, almost subconsciously, sped up against the ground, and I stood curiously in front of the shop. Scarlet Neal’s Fortunes scribbled recklessly on the stone steps that lined the store. The letters consumed each other, hardly legible in this wet reserved state of the town. My bold curiosity quickly turned to embarrassment as I realized there was still someone in the shop. In fact, there were two people. One tired but eager looking woman sat at an awkwardly shaped table. Her parallel, a man who seemed to be extremely upset. But for some reason, they didn’t seem to see me. And in the hush of the night, I could make out their words.
The woman, presumably Scarlet Neal, spoke in a slow and powerful manner, “You are being irrational.”
This quickly evoked a tempered response, “How am I being irrational, I sit here being told that the entire career that has taken up my life is going to fail me. And you expect me to..”
The woman didn’t stop him, but his voice seemed to trail aside. She started up again, her voice growing stronger as new waves surpassing the tide, “I understand you are upset, and you have a right to be. But to quit your job on a whim isn’t going to serve you well. I tell all of my clients this, that while their future may be daunting, acting out on this new knowledge launders no difference in your fate.”
His head didn’t quite seem to hear this. He was in another place. He pushed his chair away from the table and grabbed his bag. He made his way to the door, and left, fuming. His features lost to the darkness, I watched his silhouette grow smaller in my eyes.
I join myself once more in the heavy drift along the streets, and I can still feel the buzz of his chair, of the rubber stoppers against the tile. Pushing away from something he wished so desperately to unhear. I wonder if he saw me standing from inside the shop, that I never dare to go in. If he knew that I witnessed his life start to unravel from the worn stoop. Maybe
I am just another slow-moving body, drawn along by the rain.
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