1.
There is something harsh in the way the early afternoon light beats down against the buildings, and sidewalks, and traffic of Kenmore Square. Something strangely violent in the way it penetrates through the windshield of a pale yellow, 1973 Volkswagen bug - with a bare mattress strapped to the roof and the quivering voice of Edith Piaf trapped behind its glass windows.
And there she sits in the weathered driver's seat, staring vacantly out at the lanes of traffic rushing past in front of her. Her hands grip at the wheel, wringing it like a soaked dish rag.
Suddenly, the flow of cars begins to ebb and her light turns green. She doesn't notice until the car behind lets out a long, impatient honk. She glances in the rear view mirror, but the back window is obscured by leafy, potted plants that stretch out their limbs, pressing their leaves against the windows, as though begging to be let out of the cramped, overheated car.
She steps on the gas and the tiny bug lurches forward; the bus stop comes up on her left. College students are milling around; business men and professors and teenagers are climbing the steps out of the Kenmore T-stop. She slows as another yellow light turns ahead of her; her back hits softly against the seat as the car comes to a full stop. Turning her head, she looks across the opposite street, seeing the familiar stainless steel sign of her favorite burger joint.
And just like that, at the mere sight of the neat black letters printed out front, her faltering exterior crumbles. Her throat tightens around each breath, making it difficult to swallow; her eyes begin to burn; the scenes in front of her begin to swim together, to blur. A sea of colors floats before her eyes - the gray asphalt, the yellow lines in the street, the red stop light, the bright, summery fabrics of pedestrians.
She finds herself in tears, leaning over the wheel, her tanned knuckles turning white; a middle-aged Chinese couple staring at her indifferently from behind their rolled up windows.
2.
He watches her pull away, pressing his forehead against the window pane, until the red numbers of her license plate are out of sight and the white, full sized mattress has turned the corner.
Then the street is still. No one is walking by on the sidewalk below, no other cars are pulling in or out of their drives, no leaves are stirring on the trees. His eyes shift back to the empty space in front of the two-family house in which they live. Lived.
Finally, he sighs and lifts the thick glass he's been holding to his lips; the ice clinks against the insides. He turns away from the window and surveys the room he is standing in. It's the bedroom. It had been their bedroom. He's never realized how little he contributed to the decoration of their apartment. The walls are depressingly bare - she had taken the large, framed replica of Le Baiser de l'Hôtel d'Ville, the small wooden elephants and Buddhas that had lined the window sill and book shelf. She took the brightly painted mask from Carnival. Suddenly, more than half of the closet, whose door was left ajar, was empty. Her countless shoes were gone from under the bed, of which only the metal frame was left. Her underwear was gone from the top drawer of the dresser; all her antique jewelry and flowery perfume that he loved had disappeared. She had taken all her favorite books and, consequently, many of his. The cotton sheets that were soft and warm and more suited for winter than summer, the ones they had spent innumerable nights together - they were gone too, because they were hers. And the coziest brown blanket had been removed along with them. Only one pillow was left, sagging against the wall, stripped of its case.
Also, it's just my opinion, but I think this sentence could use some rearranging as well.
