story: Crosswalk

Crosswalk
By LaTanya McQueen - LaTanya_McQueen@emerson.edu


      At the crossing she takes a breath. The bitter air burns her lungs as she breathes slowly in. She looks up at the image of an orange hand. “Wait,” the automated voice says. She wraps her scarf tighter around her neck. It’s unraveling around the edges.
      People start to gather creating warmth around her as they huddle. A mother extends her gloved hand to her daughter, their two hands interlocking. There’s a couple across the street, they seem young and foolish, looking up towards the sky with open mouths trying to capture the falling flakes. She watches as the people in front of her rush by, trying to make the light.
      If she hurries she’ll find them. After crossing she’ll be two blocks away from her brownstone. She knows what awaits her. Two more blocks and it’ll be confirmed. She hopes now she’ll be the one to throw him out. He will leave her, she’s aware of this, and she knows that upon finding them his face will show relief and not surprise. That evening he’ll pack his bags, only the essentials, the rest he’ll get later, and leave. She’ll spend the rest of the night washing another woman’s scent off the sheets, the comforter and quilted blankets, even the accent pillows. Everything will go.
      Strangers step down on the curb tempting fate, and look around. They are eager to cross. “Hold my hand tightly now, don’t let go,” the mother says to her daughter.
      “Wait,” the voice keeps calling. “Wait.”
      The light changes, and the orange hand is replaced with the white outline of a man. Turning away, she takes one step down and exhales--a warm breath amidst the freezing air.

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Bio: LaTanya McQueen--originally from Kentucky, now residing in Boston, Massachusetts. Published before in Rumble, a literary e-zine specializing in microfiction.