Whether was I?

The sky was like a white sheet, without structure and clouds, and the head was without thoughts and plans, everything around was studied and familiar. Life was leading somewhere through human faces and frames of prospectuses with a misty path, and it was seeming, that it is just a drawn dream or a snippet of the film. The wheels have creaked behind the curve, and a car's wing appeared from the corner, and then appeared the car itself. So drove a few dozen cars and passed the same number of pedestrians. That's all the events on the deserted street, quiet and toy, like the whole city. Such walks usually are not even remembered, they are more a part of everyday life, than a fresh alternative. She quickly came into the distance and breathed the fresh air of the autumn, which was just starting to flare up, she was neither bored nor cheerful, she was indifferent to all, as it always was. She was not believing in happiness and signs, was not talking with strangers, and was rarely smiling. On her arm was a light bracelet, and on her neck a flowery scarf, screaming from all its appearance. The evening already began to scratch the roofs of houses, and the shadows became sharper and thicker. The lanterns were not cutting her eyes, but were faintly flickering somewhere high in the sky, instead of stars, or rather, just with them. It was cool, but it was getting windy too. Arch flashed over her head, and she was in her yard, familiar and already deserted. She turned the key and went into the apartment, undressed and made her dinner, then switched on the music and sat by the window. For many years, no one came to her and no one called. Silence replaced voices, and loneliness replaced company. Such way, she was living, or rather pretending, that she is living. Her desires were extinguished with her youth, and her passion for life was covered with ashes. There is a force of habit - the habit of not changing anything and continuing to support your own misery. That she did. Her hands found a photo album on the shelf and opened it on a random page. "Was it me? ..." - she said quietly and looked at her watch. There were only the night and her loneliness. The wind was shaking the frame and pouring down the room. Music continued to play and merged with the sounds of autumn. "How much I am already so? Why? Why can not I forget? To whom do I prove?" A little bit of self-reproaches and it's possible to go to sleep. She combed her hair and went to bed. In the morning a letter arrived. His relatives reported, that he died - the one who abandoned her, and to whom she had remained faithful for so many years, simply disappeared, became a memory. "Who among us died before? I was not living since then at all ..." The ray of the sun fell on the wall. "Now he definitely will not come." She got up and left the house. Everything was seeming pointless and empty. So many summers and so many winters have been saturated with continuous expectation. So many evenings were met in solitude. People were looking distant and not alive. She became smeared with dreams and hopes. It began to rain, and she went into a cafe, having started to look out of the window at puddles, at reflections and drops. "The world has become different today, or I have ceased to be myself, and whether was I at all? ..." The rain has over, and she went out into the street. Her steps melted in the distance, and the silhouette disappeared. Probably, really was not.