As I stood, my heart beat in my head and out my ears, in my throat and out my mouth, in my chest and through my pullover. Ronnie, the night nurse, wobbled down the stairs with the aid of the two detectives. Her eyes found mine, so I searched them. Ronnie was terrified. Ronnie was grieving. Ronnie was relieved to see me. She hadn't heard a thing.
Fast forward through decades of talking but saying nothing to those who sing along with the expired split, crack, crunch of an autumn leaf without actually having felt it.
That first dawn in New York was a bust Street meter stole her coins, so she fought it. The tourists' widened eyes when she fussed, " How can I write when it's so friggin' chaotic? "
The lines in my palms glistened a violent crimson, and I realized with hopelessness what had occured. A blissful feeling in the air surpassed my dread, and my eyes shot up to her glowing face in the dark. " You made me do it again. "