11:57

A woman passed a man on a street at 11:57 on a rainy night in Boston. She was wearing a black dress that draped over her slender body down to the damp sidewalk. The delicate silk slid over the rough ground collecting filth as it traveled. Her dark brown hair hung from her head down to her shoulders and curled at the ends. A clip, decorated in gleaming diamonds that reflected the street lights, held back her bangs. Except for a few strands that had escaped and fallen in front of her eyes slightly tickling her nose. Her arms were crossed over her ribs hugging her body tightly as she walked through the streets. The young man was wearing a plain white t-shirt with a blue jacket, just enough to keep him warm. He pulled the hood over the top of his head to shield him from the drizzle. He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket but didn’t reach for his lighter. The man looked down at it as he made it dance around his fingers for a few seconds, until he dropped his arm to his side. His hands still holding onto the cigarette unable to let it go.
Their paths crossed, like I mentioned before, at exactly 11:57. Their shoulders grazed not enough for them to stop but enough for them to notice. The woman continued walking along the street her mind filled with thoughts she did not understand. The man, unable to resist the temptation, lit the cigarette and pulled it to his chapped lips. He took a long draw letting relief wash over him, the thickness filled and polluted his lungs. He exhaled the smoke up into the sky that was hidden by night fall.
The young man grew older, fell in love with a beautiful girl with dark brown hair and brown eyes. He lived his life like every red blooded man was expected to. He married the women he loved, he started a new life with her complete with a house and kids. He made his father proud and kept most of his promises. He raised a son of his own to whom he never broke a promise.

His beautiful wife with dark brown eyes never lost her loveliness despite that you could see blue veins in her legs and brown spots on her skin. He thought about many things in his life, some of them showing the shallowness of a man others showing the complexity of a man. His mind had wandered over almost everything it could until it stopped one day. The man died never again thinking of the woman who he had grazed his shoulder against. Daniel Brown died at 11:57 on a cold rainy night in Boston of lung cancer, with the woman holding his hand as he took in his last haggard breath. Her now white hair was clipped back from her face with a barrette that sparkled in the harsh hospital light.





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