Maybe I shouldn’t have left. The streets were cold, the air was cold, my hands were cold. People were cold. I could still hear them laughing about me back at the pizza place. I knew I couldn’t take it anymore, but I should’ve said something.
“Presley, wait!” I turned around. The street lamps seemed to grow brighter as they illuminated her running toward me. I pivoted back around and kept walking. “Listen, I’m sorry about them. Don’t take it personally. It’s not you, it’s them,” she almost whispered, afraid her friends at the pizza place would hear. Their insensitivity was too much to bear.
“I’m done with them. Maybe you too.” I didn’t even turn to face her.
“Pres,” she whispered so softly that her desperation seeped through her words.
I spun back around. “Herissa,” I said through clenched teeth, “Don’t call me that anymore.” I thought my words were rational at the time. I didn’t want to hurt her. I never wanted to hurt her. The silence made space for the wind. The cold, splintering wind that murdered happiness. I wasn’t aware of her delicacy until that moment, when she turned around, walked away, and didn’t say another word.
She hurried away. She almost ran, but wasn’t audacious enough to do so. Her hands dived for her pockets and she threw the hood of her coat onto her head; protecting herself from the wind.
In the bubble of my presence on that sidewalk, years went by as I watched her walk away. I saw her friends peek their heads through the entrance of the pizza place.
“Herissa, come back! You’re gonna get cold out there!” one of them called out. They laughed. Herissa probably smiled. She probably felt glad. She was probably relieved. The wind pierced through my brain and invaded my thoughts, and I gave it a cold welcome.