We met up at the Wildwood Trail at Forest Park. No headphones, no cigarettes. Just a trickling creek, fallen leaves and the mushy ground below us. It was a surprisingly sunny day and I questioned why I was so eager to break things off for good. Haven't we had a good time? Haven't you given me the peace and quiet to write? The refreshing air and clean streets to play on? Could this other city that I'd been courting for some time romance me with midday strolls through damp greens and mountaintop vistas?
I continued on the trail for several miles until I got to Pittock Mansion, a centuries-old home a thousand feet high in the air. No one was around and I went around the back, remembering there was a beautiful view of the city from the yard. I hadn't seen my date in its full glory in some time, probably since we first met, when our romance was new and I was excited to traipse around its every crevice, when every quirk was endearing and I was protective over its every flaw.
As I turned the corner of the house, I could hear the drizzle of rain. By the time I walked across the yard over to the edge of the cliff, it was pouring. I stood there for a minute, the release upon me. The city looked hazy, gray covering gray, gray muting green. Speckles of concrete peeked out through the clouds. The rain stopped as soon as I got back on the trail, but I was already running down.
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