The Cadillac got broken into and ended up in an auction. Just filled the tank that day. $39.67. Thought that was a lot but then thought one day it’ll seem dated, just an arbitrary side-marker of the times. Went there—to the auction—saw her, of all people, just said hello, and tried to get the car back but couldn’t provide documentation. Guy wouldn’t let me have it. Laughed at me for insisting it was mine. Thought: word counts for nothing. Been trying to get away from there though anyway, out of town, as usual.

Was staying in a big house kind of on a corner and I thought that fit, like it didn’t make it. That was in the daytime, maybe morning, and I’d been there with someone who wasn’t her. I was upstairs and looking down from the landing like the one in a townhouse I lived in once upon a time but bigger and more house house than townhouse and that someone who wasn’t anyone was off somewhere in the room at the back, invisible.

The house house wasn’t my home, though, not like that townhouse. It had a small yard out front, disproportionately small, at least compared to the house, I thought. I’d been standing on the landing when I heard the sound and I hurried down the twisting stairs—down, turn, down and out the front door onto the porch.

The porch had a porch swing that looked like it might fall if a cat sat on it and a huge truck with an even bigger piece of machinery on its trailer turned down the street in front, recklessly, fast, stopped hard, loud, backed, adjusted, then continued, groaning deeply and growling down the narrow street to a construction site. Maybe demolition. Things can go either way sometimes. I stood there, watching, feeling the rumble in my chest. Trees across the street and a chain link fence stood too. That’s when I noticed the car was gone and all things really went downhill.

Later, some days after, I saw him moving himself in to a ground floor apartment of the three flat walkup across the street behind the standing trees. The chain link fence was gone and I hoped he wouldn’t come over and try to be my friend.

This will one day be a story, no thanks to you, I thought. As arbitrary as a tank of gas either way.

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.