Sep 7, 2015
savicrcomplex
Chicago on a Tuesday afternoon is not so very much different than Chicago on a Saturday afternoon, she finds. Standing at his window, she watches, senses, feels the train go rumbling by with the same radiant smile. It’s life, pure and simple, and it’s his. She feels him too, on the other end of the bedroom, but with her hands on the windowsill and her nose practically pressed to the glass, she can’t quite bring herself to turn and face him. Not yet anyway. She’ll tell herself it’s because the train is passing and it’s beautiful. But something in her screams that isn’t true.