The Glove
She left it on the bench. A gift from her mother. It was raining. Tears from a falling November sky. She had left home at six, waited for the tram, as it climbed the curve through the winding crooked inclines of her home town. She could see it’s front light, an eye blinking through the streaming mirrors of darkened shop windows.
The others were there. Huddled. Gossiping. Looking at their time pieces under an umbrella sky: their watches and mobile phones brightly glowing. Everything was late, more expensive, less reliable and the down turn in the economy was as expected as it was unpleasant.
Nothing new.
She shut out the commentary and looked blankly at the tracks. The litter. The advertising hoardings that promised sun, blue skies and a grinning cruise ship, sailing through impossibly high cliffs and mountains.
She held onto her gloves in her left hand. They were still soft after all these years. A few wrinkles. A few stains. Creases at the back and worn smooth on the palms.
‘Not unlike me,’ she thought to herself as she adjusted the height of the umbrella with her right hand.
She was tired. Another late night. She enjoyed her time with them all. But it wasn’t summer anymore. She could feel it in her bones, see it reflected in the mirror in the morning and was reminded in her fleeting dreams that passed like clouds in a turbulent sky in her fitful sleep.
It was rare she slept through these days.Autumn was coming. She recognised it. Like shadows of falling leaves across her soul.
The rumble and vibration awakened her from her thoughts. She could feel the tremblings through her high boots, her knees. She shuddered.
It was indeed, time to leave.
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