fortyeight

They walked at the curbside, hand in hand but hearts apart. The lights in the windows of the high-rises are downtown constellations, but they were too busy watching the cracks in the pavement. Corner parks are empty, like always after dark, and when the taxis stream by it's like a jukebox with a hundred four-second songs. Most of them are, like most songs are, about love and finding it or losing it. She thought to herself that it was like her life's story being told in three city blocks.