Fragments.

A car that looked like his, parked, indifferent, distant. The driver didn’t pull forward far enough, so the back stuck out arrogantly over the faded white line. The other white car, parked directly behind it, must have cursed.

Cars that come and go.

Patterns of parked cars. None. But white cars tend to park together. 10 cars together. There’s another one. Driving up. Parking right next to another white car.

Sounds of the piano and soprano in the background.

More cars. Last minute paper-writing. Should have done this last week.

Staring out the window. Is it raining? “Set fire to the rain”. Little figures running. It’s raining. The air is wavering. Wavering downwards, upwards. Eyes playing tricks. Little dots coming down. Did I bring an umbrella?

This paper won't write itself. Something about medival literature or African literature. I can't remember which one I need to turn in first.

The car is still there.

That doesn’t look like him. He wouldn’t dress like that. And he wouldn’t be alone. He can’t stand to be alone.

There’s a bloody hole in my index finger from mistreating my crappy umbrella in the rain and wind two days ago. I had to rip the skin off at the restaurant. Red. Dripdrop in the bathroom sink. I asked the waitress for a bandaid. She gave me a sympathetic look and rushed off for a cup of hot water, a cup of iced water, and a bandaid.

He drove away. It wasn’t him. The spot is empty. I should be relieved. But all I feel is lonely.

Like Jon from the day's Garfield comic. He’s dating beautiful vet Liz, and she rejects every pair of pants he tries on. He’s left with an empty closet, a messy bedroom, and no pants. Liz probably decided to stay in and bake Lasagna that’s only going to be swallowed by Garfield. Failure of a night.

And this, this is a failure of a paper.

Another car parked where he originally parked. It’s red. The opposite of white. He took my white and replaced it with red. He doesn’t care.

Two black figures. His new girlfriend is three years younger. She’s petite. Cute. Friendly. Talented. They’re about the right height. The shorter one is shaking her finger at the taller one. I imagine they are arguing, but I know they aren’t. They head under the tree by the river, and the blackness of their coats blend in so they become one figure. They should be close enough now to become one. And they are. I see arms wrapped around her. Hands entwined. Hugs. Kisses. Under the faint sprinkle of rain.

Another white car parks.

“who wants to be right as rain?”

A black car that reminds me of the Batmobile drives cautiously around the corner. Ok, so not the Batmobile. But I can’t concentrate. The driver must be getting a lot of ass for driving that car.

I stare back at my computer screen. Perhaps it's time to take a break.

[Originally written in March 2011. Posted on the joint blogger account on Wednesday, June 22, 2011]