By Amanda Leahy
He says to me love, and this is the moment I know I am doomed, right there on a cold, March, non-existent sidewalk.
I was reading all this Kant back then. I was looking for some kind of reassurance in structures. I was looking for something like geometry. Probably I should have begun with how I lost all my belief in life in the first place, though maybe that aspect of it doesn’t matter much now. Because like a boomerang he came at me. And then just as quickly, flung.
We were leveling the ground, getting ready to pour the sidewalks in. He drove a black Cadillac Coupe DeVille, maybe a ’79. Surely something before ’85. I didn’t think quickly enough to get the license, but I’m certain it was out-of-state.
It was when I was turning the big sign from SLOW to STOP.
That was when he spoke, in the millisecond between.
Amanda Leahy is a native of Lowell, Massachusetts. Currently she is an MFA candidate at Vermont College of Fine Arts and lives in Montpelier, Vermont.
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