In line

They met on the corner, already walking. “Don't the seasons every change?” An ice finger poked under her shirt and into her jeans. “It's winter." A lifting of the cheeks and falling into him. A grimace.

Small groups of people that looked just like she and he were waiting in line without appearing to be doing so. Pretending to talk. Pretending to smile. Waiting in line.

“You know, your only consistent quality is the inability to make a decision, really.” Her rare smile, what flattery, that her resistance to tell the truth appeared as confusion. He attempted dialogue, sputtering and answered himself. She helped.

“Remember when we first met you brought me a pear one morning?” She was patting him on the head, she was stepping out a stranger's cigarette, she was spilling a glass of old molded coffee. He walked ahead of her to seem as if it were he that wished to depart.

Frozen gun shots. The rain began. Rubber balls to teach them about chaos, lost forever on the street and on her legs to prove a theorem too simple to understand. In a photo they would have tears running down their faces. She would look convincing, he frozen. That is a photo he would take. He would analyze the light, the texture of the water on the bricks and her sallow cheeks. She would nod silently and hold her breath.

Suddenly, morning. The door slams itself. The little bell chimes; he’s gone. The street screams below as if robbed while alone in an arcade. Afternoon already. Her thoughts were brief and shallow. She waited for something extreme. Night returned sooner than expected.

The doorbell rang again. The window hit a wall of warm air and looking to the street she could see a green pear in his left hand. She laid back down on the bed under the window and wondered who would be next.