Fallout

She stood under the marquee, brown corduroy arms wrapped around her torso, and rocked back and forth, trying to create fleeting warmth. The flakes fell in gentle trickles, giving her dyed black hair the appearance of dandruff. In crooked black letters above her head the sign read "A Scottish Marriage." She would have laughed a cynical hollow laugh if she had ever craned her neck to notice this error. Instead she burrowed through her bag to unearth her cigarettes and lit one, the taste calming her. For a moment.

A door opened and he headed toward the street. The first thing she saw were his arms. Scrawny, like wire coat hangers. No coat. She took off hers and presented it, a peace offering. He shrugged it off. She doubled her pace, stepping on used gum and spitty bottles, the paraphernalia of people who used the alley as their dump. She couldn't remember what they fought about. All the arguments bled into one hazy memory of rage, blotted by those few hours when he was at the theatre. And still like puppy, she met him every night and followed him home. Pathetic.

The snow fell heavier, puddling around their feet like curdled milk. She wondered why they never took the subway. He was a speck, now, furious in his pursuit to escape her. The cigarette slipped from her fingers and she stubbed it out with a booted toe before breaking into a sprint. He would not get away. The homeless men she passed barely glanced up. One more crazy hipster chick. Panting, she caught up to him. She offered her hand. Her fingers were chapped and raw. She had lost her gloves.

He looked at her with bemused curiosity, a look you would give an animal caged up at the zoo. He said nothing. He only walked away. For the first time, she was left standing alone.