She woke up at 3 am. She was hungry and confused. She ate a piece of bread. Then she went looking for something. A clue. A sign. Something to melt into. She wanted mystical. All she found was a stack of old photos on the bottom shelf of his closet. Some were of his ex-girlfriend, a girl not so pretty but with a pretty flower name. One photo was of the ex-girlfriend lying in bed. Her leg was sticking out from under the covers, the calf thick against the maroon sheets. Looking at the photo was like looking into a stranger’s life. She did not feel jealous, but she had the desire to step into the picture, to sit there in the room with them just to hear what they talked about, to hear his voice and what it would say. It was raining by then and she could hear the tapping on the vents. She put the photos away and went to the front porch and watched it come down and liked the way it shined on the little leaves of the trees with the yellow of streetlight behind. The cement was warm on her bare feet. She thought about how different kinds of light on the same old everyday scene can change it. This light, this backlight behind the drops on the branches, said something about waiting a little bit more.
8-23-07:
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