People come and go. Sitting at this shore at night, with the I-90 bridge lit in a mile-long string of evenly spaced lights. The waves especially violent tonight. A plane roaring overhead before it disappears into fog. Pepper spray in my pocket from Easton, the night sky heavy and dull rather than hot with heat and sunset, me swimming with skinny boy that was my first Seattle best friend. No lover eating ice cream beside me, freezing in a thin rainshell. (Me, plucking at that jacket as I try to break up with him in Cal Anderson). The cool metal of the railing of this chair as I sit above the waves, Bellevue lit in golden towers over the lake, flickering red gems. Clouds low, my head nearly in them, slight breeze.
Mum, home, in bed, in her red checkered night gown, trying to fall asleep. Me, viscous with myself for not being there, for not being able to live in New Jersey.
My gloves smell like old climbing shoes and chalk. Faintly of cat piss.
It's comforting.
The slow span of car headlights breaking the night--flash of fear I'll be seen.
End.
shorthand, n. /ˈʃɔːthænd/ free writing, mostly.
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