The day was cold, but the people were colder. They hunched inside their coats, muttering to themselves, cursing the weather, as if they should be surprised.
The snow – if you could call it that, more of a slush really – sunk into their bones and the cold seeped in, like an infection. (I often wondered upon the magic of weather; how it can lift and drop a mood). Errands they ran, lunches they had. I watched it all.
From my crossroads I could see in all three directions. Follow the cobbles and you’d get to…the end of the cobbles before the paved road started up again, the magic of the lane already dissipating. I tried to keep them here, on my lane, but now so little captured attention. At night, though, that is when my lane comes to life. The twinkle of lights, like stars, stretched above them, the laughter and warmth spill forth onto the cobbles from the crowded bars on every corner.
And they stay, for a moment.
I will the snow to disappear and for night to fall. Day timers do not appreciate the lane, bustling about as they do. My lane and I thrive on the dreamers, the hungry, the drunks. I long to mingle amongst them one day, to dance on the cobbles, to laugh with a drink in hand.
The grave thing about desire, to long for something, is the potential for unfulfillment.
Fourth year English and Creative Writing Student.
Leave a Reply