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By Callie Ingram
it was late winter, early spring and i could breathe
better than i had in autumn.
there was an open blue sky covering every road, peeking through the empty branches.
usually when i started my walk down the block to
his apartment in the mornings, the pale white of my wrists faded into the
snow. i could pretend i was an ethereal princess, lithe and lovely, even as my heels
cracked against the pavement, even as the drab gray of my coat drowned the
blue of my eyes.
today though, sickly yellow fistfuls of grass shot up from the ground in
spurts of confidence. i bent to appraise their struggle
with my fingertips. the blades were rough and uneven, but firm in their future
path. i stood and scuffed my feet against the melting
slush, stepping carefully around any weeds that were weaving upwards until
i reached his apartment stoop. it was still covered
with ice and i was uncertain where to plant my feet
when i heard a yell from the window.
i looked up as a small key dropped on the ice and
slid across to my toes to see his mouth turned up in a smirk.
i hated the expression on his face. it was the
same one he made when i was going to be late to
work, when he finished the crossword before me, when he held my wrists down
against the pillows.
i dropped the key, he called out.
obviously, i murmured under my breath and bent
to retrieve it.
i kicked my heels against the dirty floor as i
entered the apartment, glancing at the piles of crumbled leaf pieces still
embedded in the floor mat.
i could see his feet on the stained coffee table
in the living room, eyes stuck on the television. the peeling wallpaper made
me curl my fingers into fists and i took a step
forward.
i’m done, i said evenly.
he couldn’t hear me because the television in the living room was too loud.
what, he yelled. i took a breath.
i’m leaving. i’m getting
the fuck out of here, you asshole.
what, he yelled. i can’t hear you.
i spat into the ice on the doorstep as i
hefted a box full of my underwear, my books, a toothbrush.
i didn’t have much money, maybe a five dollar bill
and some change. enough for the bus fare, at any rate. the long walk home
didn’t seem nearly as enticing with the weight of my belongings in my arms.
i glanced right and headed towards the nearest
bus stop.
i sat on the thawing bench and watched the dirty
snow water running down the street to the drain. it would travel pipes and
sewers and streams but eventually it would become the ocean, ebbing and surging
at will. i thought about the wind, how easily it
changed directions.
when the bus came, i paid my fare and sat in the
back. it was warmer back there and i wasn’t getting
off anytime soon.
Callie Ingram graduated from Rockville High School in June and will attend Ursinus
College in the fall.
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