It’s Just Me, Then

Every winter she paces the pavement, nimblefingered hands stealing wallets from slickhaired men. She sleeps on rags and cardboard stuffed deep into the steel and concrete vaults of overpasses, nests made of necessity and spite.

She walks when it’s too cold to sleep, or dozes in all night diners, bumming cigarettes, tipping heavily for endless coffee, reading worn copies of paperback books, writing notes in the margins, trembling so much she’s forgotten how to be any kind of still.

She’s lost and she’s been lost for so long, she’s feeling more and more certain she’ll never be found.

“It’s just me then,” she mutters to the empty seat across the booth. “Just me.”

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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2 Responses to It’s Just Me, Then

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    Nest made of necessity and spite… love that line. I want to know who she thinks she’s talking to at the end.

    • The same guy she’s always talking to — the Blue Eyed Man. Her only friend, her constant companion, her lover, her enemy, her long-lost companion through an extended jaunt of space/time/dimensions/universes/parallels/etc.

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