eight

It is evening in this small town. The breaths of pedestrians plume. Busses hum past. Festive lights hang askew. Children call raucously across the street, and I pretend that they do not scare me. They do not scare me.

In the shops the windows are misted. The man in the newsagents is wearing gloves. The man in the library is rude.

Excuse me while I duck out for a moment. I probably shouldn't, but the dim glow of the interior calls me, and I am seduced by soft warmth.

I walk all the way home.