By Mia Doron '23
As the lanky businessmen hurried along the shaded sidewalk, the dreaded, obnoxious voices of young children rang out from behind him. Oh, how he wished he hadn’t let his wife take the car this morning. Shelia, with all of her stubbornness, refused to take the subway any day she worked.
He picked up his pace along the walkway, mumbling indistinctly into the wind. The starch white building came into his view. No matter how many times he ran up those marble steps, it always managed to take the slightest bit of breath away.
Marveling at the great edifice, he stopped dead in his tracks. He knew, from somewhere deep inside, that he would never see those steps again.
Rupturing his thoughts, someone tapped his shoulder. He spun around with alarm to find an adolescent girl. She spoke, but she may as well have been speaking a foreign language. All he heard was gibberish, as the faint memories of Michelle flooded his mind, from her first tooth to her darkening blood on the street and on his windshield. This young girl possessed the same blond locks and full cheeks as Michelle, but without her height. Finally, the girl’s words came into focus.
“Mister, I think your newspaper flew into the street.” He gave his thanks then ran into the street, chasing this morning’s Washington Post as the strong breeze pushed it further and further away.
Seeing no resolution, he settled for a newspaper-less morning and started to turn back. Simultaneously, a van screeched while a body hit the hood with a resounding thud. All he saw was Michelle’s smiling face as his crimson blood pooled.