Small Places : Nick L Belardes [65 of 128]

• I sit on a December bench in a mist-breathed park. Fog rolls in like smoke off fingertips. Christmas sort of flickers through it all.
• It's so late here that I don't expect her to show up. A stream nearby sounds like the Milky Way mist.
• I imagine swirls of stars pouring past. I look across the grass, out onto the car-less highway.
• Houses beyond that are blurry sparks, fireflies of a lonely holiday night. "What are you doing here?" she says.
• I can barely see her shape. She's black in the fog. Lamps nearby shine like ghosts and I shiver. I feel small again,
• like I'm inside an ant farm that's slowly filling with water. I can't think of words to say. Ants wait for my direction.
• It's like she's not there next to me on the bench in the fog. I'm guiding ants through tunnels. Each sandy cave is a dead end.
• The image morphs into a maze of cubicles. I imagine Milt chasing me like I'm some kind of
• photocopier that stole his marketing budget report. "I have to go," I say. I leave her in the fog.
• I imagine running away from corporate meetings and strange Christmas office parties. Freedom.