Gristmill Lane

The door closed behind me and I was alone on the street. In my pockets were three dollars in quarters, my broken digital watch, two expired coupons for Diamond Burger and the folded letter you had written me only an hour before.
I decided to embrace this current aloneness and take a slow stroll down the laneway. My boots clicked along the black brick road as I walked, wondering what was freedom or exile and if this was it, whatever it was. I peeked into an open window and watched a young family carry along their evening: the little son fiddling with lego blocks, the taller daughter brushing the hair of her blonde doll, a dog and a cat resting by the fireplace and the husband and wife lying together on a chesterfield drinking root beers with marshmellows. I giggled and continued on my slow way, careful not to look at any other fantasies through these windows.
My attention slipped back to your letter in my pocket which I still had not read. The laneway was nearing the end and I could see the noise and traffic of the real world ahead. I pulled out the letter, dropping my watch onto the brick road, and read aloud:

    Here is only what you make of it.

    The letter slipped from my fingers and blew away in a breeze from the way I came. I reached the end of the lane and the noise and traffic filled my mind again until there was nothing else. Tapping my stomach, I wondered if Diamond Burger was still open.