the fourth installment in a week-long series exploring the rituals of starting again
citronella and cigarettes
the tiny glow of five candles scrounged from various corners of her apartment
and assembled here
on a dusty little table
beside a makeshift ashtray
(she doesn't smoke, but he does.)
her chair creaks as she lifts her butt and folds her feet underneath her in the seat.
wine sloshes as he pours too quickly into each of their glasses.
a car goes by
headlights over-brightening the railing, their faces, the front door
and then it's gone.
she notices the envelopes poking up out of her mailbox
the cobwebs in the corners of the windows
the way she is blinking a lot like some kind of weirdo
and tries to relax.
he is a kind person.
he is not noticing these things.
a breeze blows through as if to remind her
that this is new
that there is possibility here.