I.

a vignette

  She was crouched, one knee resting on the asphalt and the other drawn to her hunched shoulders. Faint wisps of dark hair wavered languidly in the shadows of her face. Her gray eyes were lowered and she was absent-mindedly chewing the corner of her lower lip, jaw working slowly, mechanically. Her blunt fingers toyed with the edge of a once-neon flip-flop. 

  It was a muggy night, too oppressive for even the flickering cheer of fireflies. Crickets chirped happily in spite of the humidity. A distant puddle of orange-hued light rippled as bats wove around the last functioning streetlamp.

  The air was still.

  I too felt no particular inclination to move. I stood beside her, watching the empty cul-de-sac and waiting. She continued to chew her lip quietly. Every time I glanced down over her shoulder she was in the same position, still eying the same vague point in space. There had been nothing in the way of a pleasing sunset and what stars might have been seen were obscured by an even sheet of high, dull clouds.

  Eventually it grew too dark to see her clearly and she slipped away from me.