Springtime, dawn. A canopy of muted blue creeps through the gaps in a grey skyline. Lights that kept the city awake flicker off now. The workers of the night creep back into their caves, leaving only a memory and cigarette ash on the ground.
Look at the city streets already filled. A steady river. Doctors, accountants, wannabe actors, cashiers. There’s somewhere to be. The dewy concrete, still wet from a long winter, has suffered years of abuse from well-shined leather shoes. Still it lay, below mile-high offices and the unseen sky. Forgotten broken bottles litter the dedicated ground, the heavy foot of a calculated businessman will walk upon them every day until they turn into a fine powder. Overhead, neon screens scream subtle insults. A bikini-clad woman takes centre stage, with a bright smile and sad eyes she’s ready to perform.
High heels. A brand new pair. Red. Confidently struts down the path. Yet another dagger into the beaten stone. Click click click. The sun that had been so sorely missed reflects a red shadow onto the pavement with every step. Each one more proud than the last. The gentle breeze dances its way through each street, each alleyway just for her. To flit and fly through a beautifully tangled mess. The pencil skirt, the tight-fitting blouse, the rouge lipstick, the sultry eyeshadow, and of course, the heels. Each man ogling, some brave enough to yell their fantasies; much to the dismay of their wives. Eyes forward, don’t look. There’s no reason for fear, the safety of the day will keep all women safe. And so, she keeps walking and the city returns. It’s already forgotten her.
The street is dark. Even the midnight employees don’t find work here. Listen closely, a gentle buzzing can be heard. It’s the sound of a single streetlight with a warm amber glow trying to stay awake. The breeze of the day is gone, instead replaced with a gale. It whips and rattles the doors lining the road. The same clicking of wood on stone, that echoed through the day was gifted to night. And the night rejected it. An unfamiliar silhouette rounds the corner. Two dark eyes meet her own. A deep breath in and a quickened pace. She plunges her hand into her purse reaching desperately for her keys. Her heartbeat pulses and thumps in her ears. She winds her shaky fingers around the jagged metal. Be ready, stay alert. But it’s too late and she knows it. She knows that the howling of the wind would be louder than her own. And, she knows that it would be her fault. This will be another secret to seep into the cement. Rough, calloused hands grab and rip while chapped lips release obscenities and slurs. Perfectly manicured nails claw for freedom. The fresh air of the night is polluted with the smell of sweat, and his dirty words.
Tomorrow you will wake. Bruised and battered, but alive. You’ll stagger to the shower and turn the heat up high enough that your skin glows raw. Enough soap and shampoo will make you feel better, if you scrub hard enough you might reach the guilt deep in your gut and scoop it out. You’ll put together an outfit for the day. A long-sleeved shirt, a blazer, trousers, and of course, clumsy leather boots. The same ugly pair that you’d made a promise to yourself to never wear again as long as you could afford not to. You couldn’t. The heels you’ll throw at the wall and blame will be gently picked up and placed inside the cupboard. Dust will gather and there they will sit. Once touched, once loved, and ever so slightly broken.