One Side of the Story
October 23, 2003Friday morning the dawn refuses to break, cracks slightly but then turns its fire-tinged breath back on itself. By 10 a.m. the world is a strange orange haze and as the ashes fall she wonders when the sky became a metaphor. Thursday morning had come hot and clear with promises of normalcy on its lips and she had floated carelessly into her day, driving east through the sunshine across dirty downtown streets draped with the city's history. She woke that night unable to shake the feeling of his skin against her bare shoulders his lips against her cheek. In his arms, she took a breath, two, too many, before she pulled away. Friday she cannot breathe. Her lungs collapse inward with the heat and thickness of the air, She stands gasping at the top of the stairs. Fire, she whispers, I can't breathe because of the fire, not the wanting.