Michael Banovsky

Note: Something I wrote back in 2009.

A deep breath won’t help shaking, or goosebumps. Depression, self-loathing, runaway thoughts, too, aren’t curable; not from breathing, at least.

Her nostrils gathered, embraced, and slid the night air into her chest. It took her at least ten steps to overcome the moment, feel her winter-wreaked fingers, and slide her exposed hands inside wool pockets. For the first time in years, she’s not using his.

It’s strange to use pockets that aren’t yours. Like borrowing a space closer to but still separate from someone. Somehow they’re always warmer than your own. She could use the heat. She’s full of motion, with feet are soaked in winter.

Cold.

Time and mind race forward, her steps still laboured. Left, right, just get to the car. Close the door. Hands on the wheel, out comes the first shred of emotion. Hands still cold, they wipe nothing but a chill onto her face.

Fuck his pockets, she wants him.

A deep breath doesn’t help shaking, or goosebumps. It’s over. She exhales with breath smothered in pain; like smoke from a house with people still trapped inside.

It’s freezing.