Write. June 2010.

Because I'm too tired to try to recount my weekend, and because I'm too stressed out to want to relive it right now, fiction:

“I’m sorry,” she whispered; then she was gone.

            He watched her go, staring at her cotton-clad back as she disappeared down the cheaply carpeted stairs. As soon as her footsteps were fading into the dark hall, he shut the door, slowly, hoping that he’d have a chance to throw it open in an excited welcome.

            But he didn’t.

            The reluctant click of the deadbolt cemented the end of her sound, and he went to the window to watch her pass through the gate. He stood near the window tentatively, hoping she wouldn’t glance up to see him watching her.

            She did.

            “Shit!” he said, before remembering that it was summer, and all of his windows were open. “Shit,” he said again.

            She stared, her eyes widening in faint surprise. She’d not been expecting him to watch her exit, but then again, nothing about tonight had gone as she’d expected. Look away, she thought. Look away. But she found that she couldn’t.

            Just his head now was visible in the lit window; he’d tucked his body back behind the wall.

            “Shit,” she said, disgusted, echoing his word choice but not nearly his sentiment. Finally tearing her eyes from his, she walked quickly in the direction of the train. She had no intention of taking the train, not tonight. As soon as she was sure that she was out of his line of sight, which was quite farther than she needed to worry about, she broke into a sprint. She’d done quite a bit of preparation in anticipation of their date tonight, and worn clothes that were not conducive to running.

            By the time she hit a street she knew she’d be able to catch a cab on, she was breathless. Her chest heaving and her heart racing, she threw her hand out blindly.  And she waited.

            As she was throwing her arm into traffic, he was finally pulling away from the window. He’d been hoping she’d come back to claim the lipstick she’d dropped. He didn’t realize that she’d left a trail of the contents of her purse behind her on her mad dash away. He wasn’t aware of the fact that she wouldn’t care.

            She wasn’t yet aware of the fact that fate would throw them together again.