She stood there, back pressed against the wall of the grocery, the brick picking at the threads in her sweater, staring at the phone booth not three feet in front of her. The light from the street lamp illuminated the inside, but a small square taped to the side cast left a dark void in the yellow glass. The wind swept into the half open door, flittering the shape and creating a soft tapping sound, like impatient fingernails against an empty wine glass. It was taunting her, calling to her, telling her that she needed it. She brushed her hand across her ear, wiping away the residual whisper left behind by the wind escaping from the booth. There was nothing keeping her from moving, but she could not seem to pick her feet up from the pavement. It was as though all of her insides had bottomed out and had anchored her to the concrete below. Shallow breaths echoed through the empty pit of her body as she watched the square flip, flap, flip, flap against the glass, beckoning for her to rip it down.
A fire shot through her insides and she pounced towards the partially open door, throwing her open palm against the pane of glass, begging for the tapping to stop. Her fingers slid down over the glossy surface of a Polaroid and she began to furiously pick at the scotch tape adhering it to the glass. She could not yet make out what the image was of; it was still developing, still fresh from its camera shell. Swirls of yellow, orange, and white were transforming into a picture before her eyes. She had never been so attentive to the process before, but now, more than ever, she hungrily anticipated what was lying beneath that foggy, ghosted out film. Each second that revealed more, her stomach twisted up in an even tighter knot. Her shallow breaths became even shallower. Goddamn moon! She cursed the night for making an already slow process that much slower. Whoever left this for me wants me to suffer. She knew that whatever she was about to see was not going to make her life any easier.
There it was, everything she least expected, most desired, and oddly enough, feared right that in her pale, cold hands. The stage in the picture was lit brighter than the town she was standing in at that moment. Dead center was a stool and perched upon the stool was someone that she had longed to see so much that it had began to make her physically ill. The face was not clear, but the long hair and thick beard hiding it where unmistakable. She knew that white t-shirt and the arms full of tattoos, strumming at an old handmade mandolin. The clearer it got, the more she could feel the vomit rising in her throat. She brought the Polaroid to her lips, closed her eyes, and sprinted towards the opposite side of town.
The cold air scraped her esophagus and pierced her lungs as she bolted through the streets. Her flip flops had disappeared somewhere back on 26th. The rough gravel road was stabbing her naked feet, but the pain was masked by the hope and dread soaking her insides. Her destination was nearing. That rundown old bar on the corner of Mason that welcomed any and every musician willing to play to very few drunken old bastards that just liked to hoot and holler, cursing and throwing their beer caps and darts at each other, laughing toothless laughs, just for a moment to create a little music. He had loved that place, despite the negative energy locked inside. He always blocked it out and just played his heart out, singing with his pained and somber voice. He was there, not missing. He had been there the whole time, hiding from life, and learning the way of the world from the old bastards at the bar. The photo proved it.
© 2008
