The top of the stairs
He watched her walk away. He didn’t know her. She didn’t know him.
And there she went. Out of his life.
He would never know her and he missed her.
She was dressed in black as she disappeared and he never felt so alone. It was hard to believe how sad he felt. He didn’t even know her but she left behind a personality he could taste. How can it be? Her shape, her walk, her scent, if it was hers, floated up his nose. Imagination or not, something stirred. He never saw her face but he will know her when they meet.
He went up the stairs, afraid. Afraid she’d be gone. When he got there he knew he’d lost. She was nowhere, but there came a scent. It was hers.
That man just stood there. He didn’t notice me as I passed. It was for the second time. There was something about the way he stood that I liked.
He must have noticed me as I walked up the stairs slowly behind the girl in black. I heard his footsteps and I paused and swayed my hips. A little.
Walking on I didn’t look back but I knew he was still standing and watching me. A terribly strong nostalgia for him suddenly came over me. I turned then to lock his eyes with mine as he approached.
“No way, you two-timing son of a bitch!” I said and went on my way.
—Dick Greene, Warren Avenue