She decided not to talk to me a few years back,..and that is okay. We lived in an old house towards the Northwestern urban outskirts of residential Philadelphia . A three- storey Victorian house with iridescent stained glass windows on the landing in between two wooden staircases.
A season or two would change,...during the downward spriral,..of our digressing relationship. A night in the hospital would sober me up for a brief period,..then falling off the wagon,...to the dead of night,.. subway trains filled their routined courses.
The afternoon lingered in the deserted city Summer. Somewhere near where society ends,...and the suburbs begin,...lost on the edges of town. A few civilians neither here nor there,...it didn't matter. She left a few hours ago,...somewhere motoring in her polluted vehicle,..stretched out among the rural highway,....beyond my comprehension. She was rather vein,...she used to capture photographs of herself,..indulged in too much make-up. Then hang the framed pictures on the wall in our furnished apartment. Was I in love with her?,...or the idea,..that I,..just like anyone else in the world,....had potential to be happy?,...My efforts fell flattened beneath the evening train as it pulled into the end of the line station,...at the center of town.
Her mother lived somewhere out in the sticks,..A far hike away,...a three hour drive into the heart of the country. Where paper mills and factories flourished beneath thick clouds of dead grey air. This was where she was born and raised. I got to see her homeland,..where the natives pranced around in wife-beaters gripping tire- irons,...it all made sense. That she would spring out from the wet garbage that gathers fuel in junkyards.
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