Night in the Park Outside of the Library

Summer left and it was night. I was standing outside of the library in town and looking up at a tree. The shadows played hard and thick through it and I watched the wind bend and morph the shapes and words and faces and life within it. Beautiful, I thought.

I was wandering the town. I did from time to time and I always packed a water bottle of wine. I had it in my hand and I pulled from it as my phone went off. A girl wanted to know what I was up to tomorrow. I ignored the text, put my phone in my pocket and pulled again from the wine.

I was in what I assumed was the last month or so of my current life. The home I had known for six years. The car I had driven for eight. The world I wanted to shed, but couldn't and didn't have to. It was shedding itself. This shell, crust, skin, film, was slipping from me and I was sad to see it but only relief swept over me as I had less. When you have nothing you can lose nothing.

I paced the dark sidewalk. Orange street lamp light shone in circles every thirty feet or so and the air was cold and my hands felt as though they'd be numb before long. I walked and thought maybe the next day I'd hike a mountain and maybe I'd finish that fucking story I'd been putting off and maybe I'd hang out with the people I keep blowing off and maybe I would finish off that fucking bottle of sleep meds and the two bottles of Jim Beam in my kitchen, but I thought Why? Why do any of it?

Three people were sitting on a bench outside of the library and as I passed they were quiet and all three stared at me. I know what a deal looks like, I thought. You fucking amateurs. I kept walking. Another bench wasn't far and I sat at it and pulled my small black notebook from my bag and began writing about a moment at the beach when Mallory had asked me to take a picture and I kept fucking it up because maybe I was nervous, or maybe I was hollow, or maybe I wasn't there at all. I didn't expect it to be one of my better stories.

My phone buzzed again and the same girl asked if I was busy now. I ignored it also and laid lengthwise across the bench and turned into it as though I'd sleep. I wished I had brought a sweater. 

I nursed the wine and thought I had no bacon or eggs or coffee at the house and I thought I hadn't fucked anyone in a few days and thought I was trash for thinking like that and thought I was trash anyway. This last month of my life. This moment, night, drunk in the park outside the library. Trash. 

I used to be something, I thought. Someone.