Work in progress?

She didn't even notice the gaping pothole until her rubber boot sank right in as the puddle filling it spilled over the rim creating a swimming pool for her foot. Rain was okay when she was at home under her covers reading a book with a cup of cocoa. Rain was not okay when she had to trek across town. Especially when she had to go somewhere she's been avoiding for weeks.

She could have turned back. It would be typical of her. She's done it at least four times before this one. The first time it was because the day was too warm and sunny to ruin. The second was because she felt like the garden was more important, and there were so many weeds to take care of. Funny think is that she hated gardening.

She cursed the rain and the sky as she continued on. It had to be done. She was not going to make another journey out to this side of town again. Just making it out of the front door was too far to turn back. She set her pace faster, ignoring the sloshing in her left boot. But what if she got trench-foot or whatever they called it back in WWI? They would have to amputate her leg and she would always be reminded of the day she decided to go see him during a torrential down poor.

A half grunt, half sigh came out of her mouth as she decided that she would stop at the next sidewalk bench to empty her shoe. Why they hell did she have to go out to see him? Then the thought of him coming out to see her, stepping into her apartment, sitting on her couch, made a lump form in her throat. No, it was definitely better that she was going to see him. Then he could picture her sitting in his living room, drinking out of his cup and once she left she would never have to think of him again.

The black umbrella hangs low around her head and she uses the location of people's feet to dodge them, hoping the top of the umbrella does not poke someone in the eye. Lifting her head she notices a bench to her right just a couple of sidewalk squares away. Hopefully the trench foot has not set in yet.

She sits down on the soaked wood, grateful for her rain jacket blocking out the dampness. Tucking the umbrella between her cheek and collarbone she grabbed her purple boot watching about two cups of puddle water pour out onto the sidewalk. And right then it was as if a wall hit her. Tears started stinging her eyes and she just sat there with her boot in her hand, a drenched sock on her foot and possibly the first case of trench-foot since 1921. A cold spell ran through her body and a sob formed from the pit of her throat before reaching her mouth. She could turn back. Try again another day. A warm day, sunny with a slight breeze.

She tried to cough out the lump in her throat but it wasn't doing any good. Taking in deep breaths through her nose. Get it together. She needed to get it together. She couldn't show up with tears running down her face. There was no way.

Slipping her boot back on she got up and kept moving. Fine, if she needed to cry then fine. She had until she got to the front door and then she would have to put them away and put her big girl face on. Another 15 minutes and she would be there.

She stopped once she noticed the red flag up on the grey tin mailbox. Maybe he stopped checking the mail or maybe he wasn't home. The path way up to his flat was covered with uneven grey stones, blades of grass sticking through and if she wasn't careful she would trip for sure. He seemed to have mowed the lawn recently which was a good sign. He hadn't left yet, but it was a sign that he was planning on leaving soon.

She took one more deep breath and scrubbed her face with her palms. No more tears. She set her face somberly, biting the inside of her cheek as she plotted the safest path to the blue wooden door.

She surveyed the brass knocker. It was a lion head with the knocker ring going through its mouth. It was one of the reasons he bought the place. She chose not to use it. Maybe if he didn't hear her knock she could go home and feel content enough with her attempt.

She lifted her right hand and formed a fist to knock. She paused, listening for any movement inside. Her heart hammered in her chest and it became very difficult for her to hear anything else. Calm down, just calm down.

Then she heard it. The latch on the inside lock slid open and the brass knob turned. She sucked air into her lungs as the door pulled open revealing a late middle-aged man with a scruffy beard and a faded red t-shirt with a worn out, peeling Manchester United logo on it.

"Hello--" He stops mid-sentence when her face registers in his brain.

"Telly?" He asks in disbelief. Nothing could prepare her for this and it takes her a moment to get her mouth working.

"Hello, Dad," She said firmly, pushing past him and walking toward the couch.

Oneword: Squint.

It was bitter cold out. The kind that eats at your fingers, chomps at your knuckles. The rain fell, mixed with snow, engulfing the city in slush. Without the sun it was hard to see what was coming in front of me. All I knew was that there were four more lights to go before I was to turn right. My knees were protesting every step of the way, but I was late. Very late.

He wanted me to stay longer. Tempted me with a quick homemade dinner. Grilled chicken on his city patio barbecue with a side of baked potatoes and corn on the cob. A bottle of red wine between the two of us in his cozy living room, his puppy by my side.

He wanted me to stay a little longer. Puppy on the floor, his body resting on top of mine. Hands up my untucked blouse. Lips enfolding mine. Legs around his waist and I stayed too long.

My cellphone rang and I had to go. I would call.

A car honked right before I crossed the street. I couldn't see a thing.

After the fourth light, I turned down my street, sloshing through the walkway to the house. I squinted against the drops that were sticking to my cheeks before gravity made them drip down. I could see you standing there. The door was half open, you were waiting since you called. Your jacket was already on and you met me halfway down the path. The pit of my stomach began violently turning.

Your eyes were wide, wild. You met me and slapped me hard across the face.

"You little bitch!" Flecks of spit hit my face. My cheek feels like raw flesh.

"You lying, little bitch!" You repeat and I'm stunned.

"You're fucking him! I knew you were fucking him!" You came at me again and slapped the same spot. I was sure I was bleeding.

You grabbed my face, inches away, and I flinched against your grip, "You're fucking done," you spit and push me backward. It hit the ground shaking and shocked and watched you walk down the street, disappearing between a billion drops of sleet.

Oneword: Railway.

She threw her empty beer bottle to the gravel as she stood up. It sounded like ten thousand rain pellets hitting a windowpane. He watched her combat boots dig into the ground, her heels sinking most of the way in. She knelt down, connecting her ear to the rail and held her breath. She thought she could hear it coming if everything was quiet enough.

"How long?"

She looked east, down the rail. "Soon."

He didn't believe her. She was full of crack stories. Little wives tales that she lived by.

He took a swing of his Jack Daniels. He was getting antsy. They couldn't stay there forever. Someone would notice the two of them trespassing. See the footage of them scaling the 9 foot fence. Getting caught on the barbed wire. Him tearing up like a bitch.

"Gimme." She was right beside him. Bloody knuckles in his face. They needed to be drunk if they were going to do it right. He shoved the half empty bottle in her hand and pulled out his cigarettes.

"Last two left."

She stared at him for a moment while he searched for his matches. The right knee of his blue jeans caught on the barbed wire and ripped through the flesh. She watched him pour Jack Daniels on it, but it was still oozing blood down his leg. His jeans were ruined.

There was only one match.

He inhaled. Toxic smoke streamed out of his nose and he heard a noise. Her eyes were always better than his, so she spotted it first.

"We better go," she exhaled in clouds. She took a shot, put the bottle on the ground and grabbed his hand.

She was the first the lie down, face to the sky, cigarette in her mouth. He wanted to remember her just like that. Smudged makeup, blue eyes, black bruises, red lipstick, gold dress. He settled beside her, railway for a pillow.

"Ready?" She asked, staring at him.

He kissed her knuckles. "Ready."