If These Sheets Were States
“Fuck.”
“Fuck.”
“FUCK!”
Eleanor yells into the midnight sky. She was alone; in the middle of who knows what street on Crownsville with nothing but her cellphone that was luckily charged enough to last the night. The woman had left Gabriel’s car in haste, told him off and recommended he go get some much needed sleep. She saw the first home and made up some excuse that she was supposed to stay with a friend who was healing from a bad breakup. In truth, she’d no idea where she was but knew being with Gabriel wasn’t any good.
Pulling out her phone she looked through her contacts, a splatter of rain hit the electronic surface. Eleanor looked up and groaned, was rain even in the forecast? Georgian rain wasn’t just any weather phenomenon because when it rained, it poured.
As if on cue, a rumble of thunder echoed the skies as one droplet became a shower full of them. Lightning cracked its whip agains the midnight canvas. She was soaked before she could even dial a number. Her thumb went for the first contact that would come to mind.
“Hey, I know you’ve probably a million better things to do... I know we just met.” A dry chuckle escapes her lips, trying to find light in the situation. “I just–– need your help.” She pleaded with the person on the other end. “It’s pouring. I’m cold. I’m in front of some red house on Oak Street. I think it’s 78 Oak...” Eleanor peered to look at the number on the mailbox as another rumble of thunder sounded the sky.
“I just... I need a ride home. If you can’t get me, it’s fine. But you were the first person I thought of a-and...”
Her voice cracked, feeling so damn alone in this cold world.
“And it would mean a lot if you could do this for me.”
@jamesxblackwell
