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Edward Solace

March 23, 2016

There was a snowstorm. Not unusual for Baltimore in winter. Still, a holy day of blanketed solitude.

She minces through the drifts, crosses the quiet highway, down the street where her boyfriend’s thunderbird sleeps beneath the snow.

Shivering she scrapes the windshield clean, each successive window.  Rearview mirrors.

From what direction has he come?  Suddenly he is there, talking to her about the uneven turns on the path of life.  He seems to be off-kilter, palpably lonely.  Yet it is the punctuating refrain of his monologue that will haunt her–at least there is great sex.

Good sex?  What was the adjective of superlative?  How did the street lights shade his pale, pockmarked skin?

She can only conjecture.  Past the request for a number, a location, further contact.

She uses the boyfriend as a defense–this is my boyfriend’s car…

Who left first and where did they go? Toward home?  Toward the assurance of sexual anchorage?

She is closer to his age now.  Filters his eccentric assertions through to a middle-aged autobiography.

Still unable to say for sure whether what he said was true.

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From → homeschool

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