Hot coffee, pumpkin flavored. The dirty street scent of trash and exhaust blowing by on a bitter breeze. The changing leaves - oranges and red, in shades that rival blood and orchards. Fall. A terrible season, fraught with horror and themes of death and tricks.
Has it really been a year, brother? I sit here and stare at the bus stop sign - repaired now since the accident - and I have to wonder if there was something I could have done to prevent your death. I should have been with you that day. I should have been the one the bus hit. Not you. You shouldn't have had to go out like that.
A year is too long to dwell on these things, and yet not long enough.
"M'am, can I take your plate?" the barista asks.
"Yes. And please don't call me M'am." Twenty-four is hardly an age to be given such distinguished titles.
The barista nods, blushes a bit, and takes the dish away.
I wonder if you can take this ache in my chest while you're at it? Probably not.
