manchester_black

The streelights are reflecting off of the pavement. The air is chilly, but not cold against my skin. Behind my eyes there's the sting of a four day headache. It's far too wet for a december. There should be snow, with that filthy slush belched out from under the tires of SUV's spattered on the trodden (or sometimes even shoveled) sidealks. That icy soggy creep up the back of your pant legs. But there isn't. Instead the neon nightime glow streached out as far as the eye can see, bullying the stars from sight. I'm walking quickly, as I always do, even if I have nowhere to go. The city is spectral at night in this part of town, the only other people being the forgotten, with their scraggled, hard-cut skin and battered cups; or the servile, the ones who pay the price for the holiday cheer, the ones who face the brunt of the last minute shoppers ire. I can tell the season has changed when I instinctively walk with the huddled hunch of winter, where my first glimpse of most other pedestrians is from the elbows down. The first thing that enters my feild of vision are the pinpoint heels of the shoes, and my eyes trace up the little toothpick legs, the ones that are apparently how beautiful girls look now, the legs that never meet, the ones that sort of disappear into her ass the same way the stick disappears into a half-sucked sucker. I step up the stairs to the doorway of my building and for some reason, I feel that I should look at the sky one last time before going inside, as if my wish for snow will be realized. My eyes trace the filthy ink grey of the horizon, and see nothing.