A Short Walk Down a City Street

He twisted the key in the lock and pulled the door handle until he heard the click of the bolt sliding in to place. Slowly, he turned toward the street, and looked out from under the faded red awning into the pouring rain. It wasn’t a hard rain, but it was steady, a leaky faucet, constantly dripping but never flowing, just enough to wet the city’s streets but never enough to make them clean. Already he was running late, but he hesitated a moment longer, reluctant to go and meet the woman he loved. She was waiting for him, in the café where they always met down the street, eager and no doubt near to bursting with questions about his day and stories about hers, her blue-green eyes so full of life and love. He could not bring himself to face such loving adoration.

A faded chip of black paint fell softly and settled into the mud and moss as he brushed his hand across the top of the rail bordering the concrete steps. Setting his foot onto the first step with a deliberate reluctance, he realized he would need to paint that rail again before too long. He stepped into the falling rain and pulled the low brim of his hat over his eyes, the droplets of water spilling off and running down his coat until they fell to the ground below, adding to the puddles already covering the sidewalk. What would she say if she really knew him, knew what he was on the inside, knew his true character as well as he himself did. If she saw the weak, faltering man unable to resist even the slightest temptations. With a final sigh, he turned his bent head and, feet dragging through muddy flyers and sodden wrappers, began the short walk down the city street.

A passing car splashed brown water and greasy magazine pages as he trudged along, head down, eyes distant. During the summer months the street was clogged with the odors of a living city, the smells of vendors and garbage drifting strenuously through the air in those few moments when the wind was blowing, settling down and seeping into every doorstep and alleyway when the still air was heavy with summer heat. But during the winter, when the cold rains fell and soaked the stains of summer, the street smelled of nothing but rain and mud.

Up above, the warm light of a kitchen window illuminated the silhouette of a wife greeting her husband, highlighting their gentle kiss as she asked him about his day. Down on the street where he walked, he passed the corner where women of less luck and looser morals stood every night and waited for desperate men ready to sell their souls for a bastard love.

At the next street he turned, passing by the women’s clothing store without a second look. He had learned to never let his eyes wander, to keep them always on a more pure path. Anything less would be nothing short of treachery. He didn’t even spare a glance for the pictures in the window, the tapestries bearing lithe models dressed in the latest laces and gowns, their beautifully smooth airbrushed skin softly retouched to perfection. Years of patient self discipline and love had made him accustomed to ignoring their longing eyes and beckoningly Hellenic figures

Ahead, he saw the café where she waited, her wavy brown hair swooping down and crossing her brow, half covering her eye, the way he always remembered it doing. Maybe she was stirring her coffee, or maybe she had decided to wait for him to order, fending off the eager waitress, promising “Oh, he’ll be here soon enough. He’s never late.” But he was always late.

He stepped off the curb and into the street, putting on his best smile so she wouldn’t see the pouring rain behind his eyes. She never did. In him she never saw anything but sun and warmth and love and strength. He was the light that gave her life, her Apollo and her Venus, her protector and her lover. But he knew it was a sham, knew he was no more worthy of her love than were any of the other lowlifes and bums in this city.
True, he had never been with another woman, never acted on those passions which had brought other men to their knees. But it was the thought that counted. Even with a lifetime of diligence, no man ever escaped that hubris fully; no man ever completely freed himself of that killing weakness.
His boots sloshed through a dirty puddle as he stepped from the street to the sidewalk in front of the little café where she sat, waiting for him. Inside he could see the elderly couple at their booth by the window, sitting as they had for years, watching the time go by in blissful togetherness. He wondered what secret self doubts they shared, what hidden misgivings and worries they felt but never spoke. At the counter was the weeknight crowd of steelworkers and accountants, truck drivers and attorneys, some stopping for a quick cup of coffee before going home to a warm dinner and loving wife. The less fortunate stopping here, as they did every evening, to waste away the time in a clean and well lighted place before going home to empty beds and broken dreams.
The bell rang with a homely sound as he opened the door and slipped through, trapping the cold and rain outside. Inside, the cafe was warm and filled with loving smells of home and comfort. From Their Table near the corner window, he saw the flash of her smile, its radiance making him forget the cold and wetness clinging to him and soaking to his soul, shedding his burdens and his pain in an instant. Without even taking off his coat, he hurried to her.
“I was worried something had happened, this weather is just so awful.”
“Sorry dear, I was just a little slow on the walk over.”
“Here, take your coat off, it’s drenched. I can’t have you freezing to death on me! Oh waitress, we’re ready now.”