She Walks Like Summer in the Evening

The bricks brush warm and rough against her bare soles as she ambles through the fading light. Day's fiery fierceness has given way to a softer heat, undercut by a fickle breeze. It ruffles her hair affectionately. It tugs at her damp shirt. She smiles, and it tickles her lips.

Water dribbles from the green metal can, a poor facsimile of rain, but the flowers drink it up all the same. When the watering can is empty, she crosses back to the barrel to refill it with the long forgotten lush of spring.

She looses herself in the ritual, sacrifices her discreteness to join the eternal ebb and flow. The moment is tenuous at best: the brown door looms behind her, waiting patiently for her inevitable return. Yet, in her amorphous state, it becomes irrelevant.

She fills her lungs and the universe expands. She breaths out and it collapses. The air intoxicates her.

She stands beside the last flower. The empty can dangles from her hand. She gazes past the narrow garden to the garages, flat greyness brought to life by the gold of the sinking sun. The sky paints its soft blue canvas with stories outlined in orange and pink. Empires rise and fall before her eyes. She feels the hope and desperation of infinite lives.

Darkness washes away her meandering thoughts. It taps the wrist of time, reminding her of the inevitable door.

Warmth lingers in the bricks and on the breeze. She wraps it around her with each deliberate step. The door smirks at her. Allowing herself one last aching glance, she turns the knob and steps inside.