Overcast

Grey, grey, as far as the eye can see; the sun a pinprick of light, straining through the curtain of clouds. He takes a drag, feeling lightheaded; as if he is floating just above the pavement, as if the steady rhythm of inhale and exhale is the only thing keeping him together, as if the second he stops he will burst out of his skin, scatter into the wind and disperse. He has always felt this way, felt as if there was a secret he wasn't quite aware of, as if he was never meant to be here, as if it is all a surprise to him. He closes his eyes and feels the light on his eyelids; light without heat, without source, pressing down on him, giving him shape. Her face, unbidden, floats out of his memory, and it is a dam bursting. Her in the night, in the predawn, in the day, in the evening, washing over him, the memories pummeling him with their vividness and detail. He stubs out the cigarette and lifts his fingers to his face, smelling that ancient smell of earth and sweet; of her and him in a creaky apartment while the world passed by.