The city was grey. Color cast aside by the changing of the season. Shadows lined the darkening boardwalks, quickly growing to devour the waning light. Rain coursed down the back of my neck. Wind buffeted sharply against my face. I made my way slowly to the bus stop. Peering west, through the roiling mist, I caught no glimpse of the setting November sun. No telltale glimmer of purple-pink streaks in the sky. No tribute to day’s end.

I waited silently at the bus stop, the wind biting through my threadbare flannel. I was glad that I had left my jacket at home. Weather like this makes me feel hard. Hard is good. Hard is necessary. Maybe I would actually step onto the bus today. Maybe I would finally go visit her. It has been so long. Too long.

As the bus appeared in the distance, I was suffused with dread. anguish. pain. I slowly turned and walked away. The bouquet of white roses I had been holding fell softly to the wet pavement. Maybe I will be ready tomorrow. Maybe I will be hard enough.