Annie

February 17, 2015

I often find solace in the creases of envelopes not yet sealed and in blank sheets of paper not yet filled. So on a July afternoon, after a particularly painful goodbye, I traveled to my favorite stationery store.  I was standing by the flat cards — four by six — when the feel of the paper in my hands lost its pleasure.

I returned the cards and walked outside. I walked faster as I passed the show truck for the antique store that's various locations we'd visited one afternoon before Christmas. I walked faster still to where the asphalt met the cobblestones, to where the farmers placed their stands, and to where the stairs and arrows pointed to the subway.

I grabbed a seat on the train, placed my sunglasses over my eyes, and looked down. I started crying. As the train approached its next stop, the older woman across from me stood from her seat. She handed me a folded piece of paper.  I unfolded it and read the note inside, signed by Annie.

I looked at Annie, and as our eyes met through glasses, I smiled, and she nodded, and the train's doors opened, and she walked away.

I held the paper in my hands.