The heart remains the same

When he couldn’t sleep he watched the street, lit up orange, below. Most of the few people he saw at night were young men slowly staggering home; heads lolled back and arms swinging languidly at their sides, when together, they would stop each other from drunkenly running up the wrong stoop with a simple tug on the arm. When girls appeared, they were often alone. He watched them walk up the street, seemingly less drunk than the boys who preceded and who would follow them. He wanted to reach out and touch them. Who were these girls out walking home, alone in the middle of the night? He wanted to invite them up: not for sex, not even to talk, necessarily. He just wanted to hold them. A tiny second, an accidental caress of an arm against his own, gone unnoticed by anyone else, would make him feel all right, for a little while at least. To sit, even in silence with someone would be enough, he thought.

His throat began to hurt when he saw a young woman chase after a man about his age. His throat hurt because when one is overwhelmed with emotion, it is not the heart, but the throat which seems to break. It forms a painful lump and closes up; it becomes difficult to swallow. The girl’s running softened to a quick skip and then slowed when the man she was following refused to turn around. She gave up and settled on walking quietly behind him, fixing her eyes on the back of his head. He imagined that she was probably willing him to stop, or regretting whatever she may have done.

On clear nights, from his top floor window, he could see the lights glimmer across the city, sometimes clustered together, waving like little fires. But he always failed to find her as his eyes searched in the windows of every cab that drove by. Usually, when the throat hurts, the heart, physically, remains the same.

Submitted by the lovely emmakempsell.