on the mystery highway
through the land of the living
and the land of the dead.
Inside the limo , shadows.
Outside, etched by the cruel crystaline clarity of their moment in the sun, stick figures veteraned the narrow streets. Tired, worn and ragged, they dragged themselves through the sun as if it light was a burden.
She hung from a barb topped fence. It guarded the play-ground of a school. She gripped the wire with tiny, white knuckled fingers. Her fragile little white lace dress and tiny white shoes glittered as her legs scuffed against the steel. Golden curls matted against her forehead. Gun-barrel eyes narrowed on a single dandelion, crack sprouted from the sidewalk.
“What's the matter?” Carolyn asked.
At the St. Francis, we took the elevator to the roof. I pulled her toward the edge.
Snow sifted down over Union Square.
I unlocked the door to the roof top suite.
She turned on me with angry eyes.
“Sorry? That's all you have to say after dragging me around like a rag doll?”
She paced to the window, whirled around, and glared. Her hair, unraveled from its bondage, swooned across her temple in a lush golden wave.
I sat on the couch and ignored her.
I cupped the dropper bottle in my hand.
I got up and walked to the French doors.
Outside, late afternoon shadows shrouded the street. Pan handlers shuffled past abandoned street artists' stalls. The snow was a palpable presence. A crisp, uniformed , mounted policeman clip clopped by on a black Morgan.
She stood in front of the fire place.
I went to the bar. I poured champagne.
With feigned innocence I handed her the glass.
She lifted it to her lips.
Outside, snow fell silently.