The close of Washington was stained oranges, tiny baby-blue streaks swirling among the white puff clouds behind the trees and the crooked house roofs.
Trucks dragged through the congested ground.
People leapt across the white-stained ash, children climbing into the school bus with their little hands waving into the air.
Then sirens held the noise, and the earth held the thudding of feet.
It was one of those humid summer mornings where the wind behaved itself for once, and the afternoon promised to drip with heat.
Yet a subtle melody slipped through the cracked window of a rented trailer—threading between trees, overgrown greens brushing against the metal walls.
The window had tape across it, the curtains dented, light cutting through from a rust-bitten desk beside a dwarf-sized fan balanced on chewed-up wood.
Then_ there was the woman.
Not sleeping.
Just twisted in an odd sitting position, a butt never touching the cold metal floor. One leg angled painfully into the pile of crumpled clothes beside used bowls, unwatched utensils, and a misplaced spoon.
Her fingers dragged across the thin strings of the old border-line guitar, her pink-tipped nails clashing with its carton color.
Her lips parted through her spaced teeth; eyelashes resting on her freckles.
Her thin neck tilted with a painful hum.
Dark-red hair fell behind her like a loose braid.
Her mouth opened, closed, then let out a breath like she still hadn't figured out how to take one.
And when it came out again, her shallow cheeks pulled in, navy-grey eyes shifting toward the tea she hadn't finished.
"Here goes nothing," she whispered.
Her tongue touched the lip she had just licked. She cleared her throat, straightened her spine a little, parted her mouth—and winced as her fingers burned.
Instead of the beautiful melody she dreamed of, it came out symbol by symbol, her drifting voice gliding across the grass trails outside.
An older woman walked by, looking up at the breaking of bule sky.
It had been—
A flash of red, reflecting off the transparent bread paper, shifting aside among the little beverages and detergents.
"That will be 28 dollars and 52 cents."
Anne cracked a smile, digging into the deep pocket of her worn brown jacket. She grinned wearily at the cashier's stare before dropping the coins.
Coups…
Across from her stood a big-bellied man with a fat face, red cap, yellow writing, and cow horns. His expression was nothing but scorn.
People whispered.
People glared.
All digging into her back.
Her wiry lips forced a nervous smile.
A very nervous smile.
" Oh... Men I damn hate this toss rocal of a job. " And he manually calculated.
"You never know what you lost until it's gone," she muttered in French.
Her eyes narrowed, shifting to the white wall, the caged light, the fixed black screens with color words.
People moved.
In rhythm.
Heels, boots, sandals, slippers—legs everywhere.
Her eyes drifted to her own legs.
Toes old and wrinkled.
Old nail paint fading.
Soles cracked under harsh expectations and her pinky toes crude.
She blinked.
Lost in the hoot of trains, the gritty contrast of steel tracks, the huffs of engines, the rush of people, the pause in-between.
Anena blinked.
For two years she blinked—for different reasons each time.
Breath held, pupils rolling back, lips parting for water.
She blinked things out for different reasons.
Calloused fingers reached up to the ironic dim denim blue cap—tangled with crisp leaves, rolled foam, dust.
A cap from the very beginning.
From the moment she made this decision.
This decision that unsettled everything.
She was Anema Corey—daughter of the most influential doctor in France.
A billionaire's child.
The last of many sisters.
The prime child.
The one who made heads turn.
The one people admired from a distance.
Envied quietly.
Wanted to be—but never fully understood.
She was Anema.
Just Anema.
A 32-year-old woman who now ripped at her handmade guitar and sang by the train rails of Washington.
She sang her choices.
Her life tale.
Maybe this would be her last song.
And she regretted not finishing the tea that morning.
Red, was the color of this love.
Grey, the color of our blood.
If ruin is uncertain, how do we think?
If tree edges twig, how long does a turtle last on rocks?
If hope were certain leaves—how long?
It feels like being a character in someone else's book.
No pick, no choice.
Placed back like a grey paddle.
Oh no—I picked.
I'm the fool.
Red is a choice…
She sang it over and over. Not broken. Not painful. Not sad.
Just sang. To the unknown. To whoever would listen. To whoever would pay.
Her lips shaped the lyrics softly.
And he sang with her, like he always did.
Dark. Tall. Imposing.
Standing among the standing people.
Untold past carved into his silence.
Lean fingers caressing the brown dog, which whined painfully, its eyes darting between the woman and the man.
The dog pressed into the black silk of his suited arm, shaking under the tension in his clenched fist.
Emotions boiled inside him—
All negative.
All sharp.
His eyes watched people of different colors clap as she sang.
They recorded.
Commented.
Smiled.
Some tried singing along.
And the tips fell into her case.
The rage in his head jumped—hard.
All negative. All negative is burned.
Is all burn hard.
His eyes snapped down to the dog that whined harder, desperate.
Yet the tug of his hand made the dog shrink.
"Hush… she never wanted us, so we should not need her," he whispered. More to himself than to nobody.
But his eyes betrayed him—filled with something he didn't want to name—as he stared at the woman he never thought he'd see again.
Not like this.
Not on the street.
Not singing.
Not this tired.
Not this broken.
Not this dirty.
Not this fallen.
Not this...
"Anena…"
His Anena.
And for a moment—
Her eyes lifted.
Met his.
Shoulders froze.
Head tilted.
Pupils dilated.
Iris trembling.
Memories rushed.
Some happy.
Some bitter.
Most dark—grey-muddy, heavy, navy deep.
Her lips. Cracked and painful parted with a lump forming within her throat.
"D-Dean…"
Her Dean.
And She flee.
Like she was chased.
Like she saw the devil.
The one clung to her nightmares.
Dean.
[1073]
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