The Wanderer

I walk the silver sidewalk, flooded with last night’s rain. The soft pitter-patter of the remaining water drips off the roof. The streetlamps flicker as I press my hand to a cold window, spray-painted with colorful graffiti. My warm breath fogs up the glass. A silent night like this is good for carefully placing your feet, one in front of the other, avoiding the crunch of the shattered green beer bottles. I trace my finger carefully along the branding of an old flip-flop, long ago left in the dust. A few lonely stars flicker in the cloudy sky. The rough concrete catches on my shirt as I slide down the wall, etching tiny cuts into the skin of my back. Sliding my hand across the ground, I feel the flesh slice and a fresh warm liquid oozes out, leaking away my soul. The pale morning sun paints the empty town with a watery shade of marigold. I palm a shard of glass and stumble to my feet. Suddenly, the waves start crashing over me. The guilt hits me in the gut, washing through me and over my head. Washing everything inside me away, leaving me a shell, a husk, empty.

I feel so empty. It’s only when an angry growl twists my stomach that I realize I need to find something to eat. How long have I been sitting on the street? The sun is now harsh and unforgiving, blinding, dizzying. I stumble to the nearest diner. Not a soul stirs. The eggs are warm as I shoo lazy flies away from the bacon.  Eggs and bacon, rubbery like the tube they put in my throat. I’m not hungry. I force myself to choke the food down anyway. I sit for hours in the humid diner and stare out the window. At the never-ending road. The car parked on the street, a beat-up pale-yellow vehicle of an unknown brand. The plastic bag that drifts across the concrete like a lacy jellyfish.