Writing2

Writing2
Originally uploaded by Anathemata.

Fleece Factory

There was nothing left drifting in the space between them. His face was set
and simple. The table her hand rested on was like a stained wooden brown
void. The sun was gone and she lifted her hand from the nothing, then left.

A light green door stood in her way, but she had very little trouble with it.
Colors didn't enter her mind in any sentimental way at the moment, but the
sound of the door scraping the cement as she closed it made her cheeks
sting.

Then there were cars and there were streets and there were neighborhoods
at the outer edges of a city, nothing was familiar. Only a few things in the
back seat of her car reminded her of anywhere else. She thanked him for
that, she spat his na?1e out for that. ~ \.
After too long living in the town she grew up in, she left with him, when they
had something. Now she was here where no one else was, no one who's
name she knew, no one who's face glowed for her. She had left so many
people she barely knew, but that she recognized, people she had felt
comfortable with. As she thought about how for away those people were, a
light turned green and she turned another corner.
She wanted to go back to school, she wanted a job as a masseusse. She
came to this city with him instead. Now she wanted to go home, but couldn't.

Weeks of nothing had passed in search of somewhere else, until she found a
garage with a room over it and no heat, a bathroom with a dirty shower stall.
It was cheap, so she moved everything out. The things in the back of her car
were the last things, the divvied up things, the lightly contested things. She
didn't push because she never did, didn't like to, and so there were less
things in the back than she had e.pected. There was always less than she
expected. She knew she shouldn't do that, expect, but there it was, she was doing it again. She was expecting him to call before she even made it to her garage. Her phone lay on the passenger seat empty, without messages,
without the silly duck sound she liked to hear all those times he would call on
his way home, or on his way away from home, or simply on his way.
/' -' ,
The garage was next to anold fleece factory north of Los Angeles, north of
" ,
the Tejon pass, way north where she had been working at a yarn place, a
remnant of the old factorY.,The garage had been built by the owner of the
fleece factory to mix in with the other buildings. The landlord said it was a
sort of speakeasy in years gone past for mistresses and men to meet, a place
where time was spent with someone else.
She would be alone, something she wanted for a long time. To be alone, to
. put things together. She wasn't so glad to be aware of the place's history as