Berlin Wilhelmstrasse

 

 

 

They will be cold, she thinks. Cold, just like her.

The night itself holds no promises anymore. They have seen a lot, so many cities, so many streets, different, yet all the same to them. They have watched summer fade into a greying, inevitable autumn, and cold sinking to the ground like a heavy blanket, while their skin remained warm, glowing.

In the beginning, they have talked and laughed and endeared each other, all with their eyes, never needing a word. But their gazes have strayed now. They don’t hold the fire anymore, not like they used to.

Autumn has moved into their hearts, and they are unable to stop it.

Cold wind blows around them, heavy with rain and a few wet leaves.

They are still beautiful, even in the unwelcoming, unforgiving night.

A woman walks past them, not noticing their drama, their plight. Her feet rustle the leaves, move them on.

Rain starts to fall, more of a sleet, really. Cold and bleak.

The drops ripple the surface of the puddle, and for a moment, they’re contorted, all of them: The woman, hurrying past to find shelter and warmth, and the couple on the huge poster, their skin glowing and their faces turned happily towards each other, but their eyes dead. All of them. And herself, the street-lamp.

They are cold, she now sees. Cold and forgotten by a twist of fate, or maybe something far less spectacular. Maybe simply forgotten.

The woman is out of sight now, only her heels are creating faint, clacking noises on the wet tarmac.

The couple is still there.

And in the ripples the rain creates in the puddle, their reflections seem to talk.

Finis