by Jon Blistein
At the moment right before nightfall and just after dusk, scattered storm clouds bruise the sky black-and-blue contusions that wander across the body of the atmosphere. On the steps leading up to the backdoor of Church of The Ascension, ash from a cigarette and shallow puddles of spit tattoo the concrete. For the first time in maybe a week everything doesn’t seem so dark, which surprises you a little as you look at the hot orange tip of your Marlboro and the matching pale light hanging above the stoop. And then that moment above passes as quickly as it arrived, and that sensation you hadn’t felt in days escapes you, all at the same instant when you’re no longer alone on those steps and you have to force yourself to cough up a succession of words, fragments, and sentences to the two people you can’t bear to look at. A week ago you told him how you felt, and saw him fucking her the next night. Back in your room, sitting naked on the linoleum floor of the bathtub, hot water running down your face not unlike tears, you look at your upper arm: the same color as the clouds at the moment right before nightfall and just after dusk.
Jon Blistein is a student. He likes to write and take long walks at ungodly hours of the night.