Fiction is more fun than truth...

I'm posting something I've written, only to escape reality as I live in this flurry of emotions that cannot truly be described in words.   Why not write about something imagined -- that describes a place and time other than my own life?

It was the beginning of fall. The Charles River drew foggy with the seasons changing of the guard.  In the morning light, my head was just as opaque as the weather. I had written off my chances of being any part of this city, so I spent the prior evening tangled up with my couch and a bottle of Pinot Noir. Boston woke with an understated energy-- a vibration that those who were keen enough to observe could feel. Most mornings I could look out my window at the Charles and see the rowers gliding underneath the Longfellow Bridge.  I watched runners pace along its shores in pairs; their breath suspended around them.  On most days—nearly every day—the weather drove the mood of the city.   In spring, the energy is high with flowers dotting the walkways and birds cramming the shores scavenging for breakfast.  The winter months are dead and the sleet blankets commuters with doubtful, sour looks.  Every morning, I observe these seasonal emotions change on the residents of Beantown as I sip my morning coffee from my brownstone window. 

It was 8:13 in the morning when I first glanced at her from afar.  Charlotte’s waves of auburn hair seemed to dance as it was tousled by the chilly Boston air.   Her long green peacoat cocooned around her tiny, freckled body--or what I would have assumed with her fair complexion, would be freckled.  As I stood at my window, I caught myself smiling; something that, for me, didn’t spontaneously happen very often. I noted the time I saw her and then spent the remainder of my day wondering what caused such a stir in my soul that I would incredulously have an emotional reaction to the sight of an absolute stranger.

 Against my better judgment, I left my building at 8:10 the next morning. I shuffled carefully around piles of leaves swept aside by building manager, Carl. He leaned against the brick covered columns between my townhome and the sidewalk, grinning sheepishly at me. Carl carried a lost, sunken look in his yellowed eyes and slumped forward when he stood. His mouth was set in a half-gaping slack and words seemed to tumble out carelessly into the blustery weather.

"You's an early bird this morning, eh? Seems like I never see you in daylight hours."

His utterance curiously struck me, but I was in such a hurry I mumbled something about the weather and kept my eyes in the forward direction of the Charles.  I wasn't sure what I planned on doing when I saw her pas-- if she passed by the river at all.  But as I walked towards Memorial Drive, I replayed the cadence of her steps and the liveliness of her curls in the wind.