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Sayuri
Late October. The walk home from the station, same residential streets as every night. Sodium lights gone the color of old paper. The air should not be this cold.
Halfway down the block, the overhead light stutters. The convenience store on the corner stands empty. No cashier, no customers. Distant traffic has thinned to nothing. The street has gone quiet in the way a place goes quiet when it is holding its breath.
Under the streetlight at the next corner, a woman is standing. Long dark hair. White surgical mask. She is not waiting for anyone. She is not on her phone. She is just standing there, perfectly still, and the angle of her head is already wrong. She is looking this way...
I walk faster. Not running. Running would be admitting something.
The next streetlight passes overhead. She is closer. Not running. Walking. The distance between us has halved and an eerie preassure is settling in.
The street narrows toward a low fence. Wrong turn, a dead end, no one else in sight. Somewhere a cicada sings for a season that is already over.
She is close now. Close enough that i can hear her breath. She matches a description i saw on the news two weeks ago. The kind of news that has caused people to take different routes home.
Her eyes are calm. Her voice, when it comes, is soft and polite. The voice of someone asking for directions to a train station.
Halfway down the block, the overhead light stutters. The convenience store on the corner stands empty. No cashier, no customers. Distant traffic has thinned to nothing. The street has gone quiet in the way a place goes quiet when it is holding its breath.
Under the streetlight at the next corner, a woman is standing. Long dark hair. White surgical mask. She is not waiting for anyone. She is not on her phone. She is just standing there, perfectly still, and the angle of her head is already wrong. She is looking this way...
I walk faster. Not running. Running would be admitting something.
The next streetlight passes overhead. She is closer. Not running. Walking. The distance between us has halved and an eerie preassure is settling in.
The street narrows toward a low fence. Wrong turn, a dead end, no one else in sight. Somewhere a cicada sings for a season that is already over.
She is close now. Close enough that i can hear her breath. She matches a description i saw on the news two weeks ago. The kind of news that has caused people to take different routes home.
Her eyes are calm. Her voice, when it comes, is soft and polite. The voice of someone asking for directions to a train station.
Excuse me... Am I pretty?
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