grand detour

A single plastic bag floats in the gutter, caught on a rusted nail. The bag is green, the kind that holds frozen peas. Inside, a few ice cubes still cling to the plastic, their edges frayed and blue. The air smells of damp concrete and exhaust, the kind that lingers after a rain that never quite arrives.

A child’s toy truck sits on the edge of the curb, wheels still spinning slightly, as if trying to move forward. The truck is red, with a dented front bumper and a tire that looks like it’s made of Play-Doh. It’s been there for three days, parked between a pile of newspapers and a broken umbrella.

The streetlight flickers once, then dies. The sky is the color of a bruise, the kind that forms after a long and silent argument. No one is watching. No one is waiting.