3 to 4 nights a week...
She laid on the floor of this strange, but known woman’s garage.
Darkness falling all over her. From the tips of breasts and nose to the backsides of calves and tucked shoulder blades.
There was the turn of gravel. The first two then the second set of tires grinding imperfection against imperfection. The grating against the grating. A normally dispassionate sound all of the sudden besot her with anxiety.
She placed her left hand against the corresponding temple in reactionary movement.
Sara felt hungover.
She had consumed more than her fair share, hadn’t she? And was lulled into the satiety of what it is to look like. Then because of his...
That part does not matter.
Comfort seemed to beget conflict. She became restive imagining what else was out there beyond wooden towers. She was taken advantage of and took advantage. She said mean things and tried to justify them because they were true.
And then he used her, because he could, because maybe he needed her to assuage the drum pulse of loneliness.
And he justified it. Because she had been destructive and callous.
And she let him, because of the throbbing pulse of loneliness that was so resounding in her own heart it reverberated off of street signs and beleaguered ill deserving pedestrians on their way to buy thumb tacks and coffee filters. And there was so much pain that it hollowed her out and left a person that simply could not care.
Sara hurt herself.
She slit one wrist, she slit the other.
In the disquiet of night, she laid there bleeding to death until the morning came.
...so the left hand to the corresponding temple.
Two seemingly kindred shapes that fit like one palm falls into the other.
All of the sudden, disparate.
The sun touched the tip of nose, the top of the chest.
She opened her eyes only to find herself on the same grey cement floor. As in dreams, so in life.
The vibrancy of light drained, the sounds of day mocking her.
This was Sara.
3 to 4 nights a week.