STILL

My flight arrives late and cabs are scarce. It’s after midnight when I unfold myself from the taxi's back seat and escape the cloud of stale smoke and curry. The cabby takes my cash without a word and drives away, destined for God knows where. I pause, deep slush soaking my new suede boots, then take a deep breath and push myself through the door.

 

Hours of silence are shattered by a siren screaming by. She doesn’t stir, just the rise and fall of her chest mark the moments before dawn. I shift in the chair, uncomfortable.

 

We’ve been friends for over 20 years. At Thanksgiving this year, after putting my kids to bed, we shared a bottle of wine and caught up. She got back together with Jarod. She said he treats her like a princess, buys her gifts. He really does love her. I told her I’ve heard it all before.  She said I’ve been bitter since my divorce. She left early and I didn't call. Now, here we are.

 

The ventilator inhales and exhales for her. Jagged lines track her heartbeat across the monitor, always returning to the start. I reach over and brush stray hair from her forehead, careful, so careful, to avoid her battered face. The necklace of bruises he left her will fade in time, but the damage runs deep, maybe permanent. It’s too early to tell.

 

The sun struggles to conquer the horizon, casting prisms from the melting icicles as it rises painfully slow, clouds lit up and glowing. 

 

My friend remains with me, still.