sunday prompt: yes

cold blue sky. naked trees and their sluggish blood. the careful step of pedestrians on ice-mottled sidewalks. two snowstorms that year, and now with trepidation, inching into February. even so, less than it has been. she remembers years with towering snowbanks, drifts up to the second story of houses. she mistrusts this memory, but sees the images with such perfect clarity that it's hard to remember otherwise.

she keeps her desk by the window. a small third-story apartment, looking down onto the street from a large gablefront house. a streetlight flanked her view and in the night provided a constant eldritch glow through her blinds. she slept to steve reich's 'music for 18 musicians,' lulled by the oscillations of tone. though it is a small town, no one knows her. she works alone in a silent bookstore with a silent owner and goes diligently home after every shift. she makes enough to live alone. doesn't even have a cat. goes back and forth to the refrigerator for a glass of milk. sits on the side of her bed and stares into the dark, not a thought in her head.

she writes at her desk. there is a small lamp that burns at 40 watts. there is a scattering of utensils, pens of many colors, pencils of varying lengths. looseleaf paper is piled in the left corner, written all over in her crabbed, furious hand.

she looks up. the snow is falling again, lazily, pinwheeling like performers through the limelight of the the streetlamp. she makes a note. lambent and then

0

oh moon
your sad face brings down
the whole sky:
he discolors his cheeks
with soot & ashes
for you

o

she taps the side of her face with the capped black pen. stares into the outside. across the street there is a fenced-in playground. the metal of the swingset pokes through the snowdrifts like the bones of a mammoth skeleton. she can feel a cold coming on. she feels unsettled and uneasy. the windows are ill-set in their frames and the wind sneaks in. she wears sweaters and blankets to bed but wakes up sweating, fighting with the tangle of sheet and leg. she dreams she is boiling in an Arctic sea. her eyes dart from wall to wall, finally settling on the closet door. dark leaks out around its edges.

it is four in the morning. she is far enough past the winter solstice that the days now elongate instead of contract. this is a source of relief for her. she feels relaxed, as though the hours of the day are rooms that get bigger with each sundown, giving her more room to stretch out. she feels comfortable in large spaces - so long as she is the only one occupying them.

o

she has discovered something. she likes to go for small walks. just around the block, down to the park by the water, then up the street again to her apartment. she is most frightened coming out of and coming back to her doorway. before she exits, she looks cautiously down the stairs, listens for the sound of the other tenants rustling around like badgers in their burrows. she can see the line of boots and sneakers outside - this is how she knows if they're home. counts the pairs. today - all of them, present. everyone is home. this means she runs down the steps quickly, trying to avoid the ones which squeak - bypassing the second floor, then tiptoeing down the second flight, peering at the last obstacle, and then flings herself out the front door, around and past the gate before the screen door slams threateningly behind her. once down the sidewalk, she lifts her eyes and tumbles her hood down, breathing in the sharp, cold air. the world around her bristles with white.

it is sunday, just around noon, and most people are either still at church or brunch. the streets lay as quiet as a holiday. she likes to think of this time as her church. the crunch of her footsteps on fragile ice-pools. the cold warmth of the sun. she tilts her head back and shades her eyes with a mittened hand. when she arrives at the water, she finds the solitary park-bench and leans against the back of it. the harbour glitters like a garrison, armed to the teeth. seagulls describe lazy, huge patterns over the trees, calling idly to one another as if gossiping. all around, the despoiled snow, marred with the long slashes of footpaths, the brown crud splashed up from the road. she knows what she will write about. it slides easily into her like a cat creeping into a room. she watches the idea prowl around inside of her skull. waits for it - then she is gone, fairly dashing along the sidewalks to get back to the house, inflamed with the idea, her whole body fevered with it. she shakes with it. the blocks go by quickly and before she knows it, she's standing in front of the gate again. staring up at her window. her heart is hammering - this is the other end of the walk, the time which sometimes makes her stay in bed in lieu of her sunday walk, if the stairs are too busy or the streets are occupied. she advances. stealthily.

the door opens with its requisite metal shriek. she hates it, wishes it death, thinks briefly of being possessed of some unnatural demonic strength and wrenching it off of its hinges, crunching it, twisting it. her hand lingers on the handle of the doorknob as she shuts it quietly behind her. she proceeds up the stairs, gripping the rail as she goes, passing the first door, heading up the way - fifth stair, sixth stair, seventh stair (there are eleven) - she feels she is shrinking with trepidation, as if she could hide behind the rise of the stairs if threatened - and, suddenly overwhelmed, bolts. she can hear the sound of someone behind apartment 2, rattling the knob, but she is safe, behind the corner, back pressed to the wall, chest heaving with fear. she looks around the corner, peers at the man who is exiting. he is lingering on the threshold, sliding into a pair of boots. is her age, she thinks. wearing a plaid flannel shirt and a winter hat. fingerless knit gloves. he is sniffling slightly - perhaps afflicted by the same germs she feels percolating inside of her own body. he laces his boots up and stands, glancing in her direction. she flattens herself against the wall anew and holds her breath, not releasing until she hears the sound of his tread down the stairs. the screen door's obligatory slam is her starting gun - she flees up to her door and unlocks it with trembling fingers, letting herself in and shutting it closed carefully behind her. she leans heavily against it, allowing her breath to slow, her eyes sewn shut against the world.

o

her desk is her refuge. she pulls the chair in close, tucks herself in, turns all the lights down but the 40 watt lamp. the day is getting dark, the hours winding down again. she feels the angry tectonics of her empty stomach and ignores them, instead picking up a pen and arranging a sheaf of paper in front of her. she chews on the cap unthinkingly. his face. his gloves and boots. she is imagining pieces of him. she writes broad, honest face

his name is max. he works part-time as a waiter in a small restaurant and he hates his job, but he's good at it. lately his hatred for his job has been bleeding into the rest of his life. he has been drinking alone, at home, sequestered in his room with a bottle of whiskey and endless repetition of Nick Drake on vinyl. he lives alone, prefers his own company to the company of others, but isn't above going out to the bar for a drink or two. he can be prompted by the urging of his friends, who are constantly egging him on to find a woman - even though they themselves are all single or in uncomfortable relationships. he is awkward, though not without his charm, and often blows a conversation with a woman just by lapsing into an introspective silence. he has a dog that he takes for walks every morning and every night. it's a golden named Danger, though the dog's disposition is largely only for frolic and play.

he lives below her, though they've never met. once he thought he saw her leaving the apartment from his window, watching her turn down the sidewalk. she looked mistrustful. sad. almost panicky, like a squirrel attempting to cross the road. he's always wondered about her.

she stops. scowls at the paper as if it were a mirror. her left hand flashes up, about to crumple it and lob it into the wastebasket - but she doesn't. she lingers on it. closes her eyes for a moment, then picks up her pen again

he is curious. doesn't even know her name - but knows a way he can find out. he waits behind his door, eye pressed to the peephole, watching her pick her tenuous way down the stairs. he waits for the sound of the door downstairs to slam closed, and then he makes his way down the stairs after her. it is cold in the hallway. the building is old and drafty. he can feel it runnelling up the arms of his sweater, up the cuffs of his pants. the row of mailboxes - he's never bothered to check the others. lifts the tongue of apartment 3 and squints at the name printed thereon -

her name is Yes Mayberry. he blinks and lets the box close, standing there for a long second that turns into a longer minute. whose parents name someone Yes? a weird urge coruscates through him to change his own name to No. he gets a thrill from the thought and can't help but suppress a light laugh. what a weird girl.

she stops again and shoves her chair back from the desk, biting into her lower lip like biting into an overripe fruit. a tiny scarlet thread of blood makes a rivulet down her chin, but she doesn't notice. she paces around the room, murmuring senseless words to herself, almost as an incantation to keep the crushing loneliness at bay.

she can hear the stairs, creaking again. the sound of a key in the lock. she rushes to her door, fitting her eye to the peephole. watches the motion of his shadow on the wall as he fumbles with his boots. hears each thud as he drops them to the side, and the sound of the door as it meets again with its jamb. the light in the hallway goes out. she does not move. breathes in dust. exhales Yes.