She stands in the courtyard where everything grows except what is necessary—to her. The tree bears fruit she can’t identify—oranges mixed with something darker, sweeter, unfamiliar. Like her situation, it exists in violation of what she thought possible, flourishing in conditions that should have killed it months ago.
The flame rises from the concrete circle, fed by some underground gas line she’s never understood. She watches it burn steady and purposeless, this memorial to nothing, this heat that warms no home. How many evenings has she stood here, waiting for his text, his call, his careful footsteps on the gravel path that leads to her door but never to his future?
In the distance, the buildings rise like promises. All those windows glowing with the kind of light that comes from marriages, mortgages, the accumulation of years. The woman in the red coat walks toward those structures with long, but light strides, of someone who has keys and who doesn’t need to check her phone before e…
