Walking home

A Friday night, but no one around.  Empty streets, might as well be the middle of the night.  On one side of the street, the houses blocked by high walls, like a fortress, the other, an empty park.  I feel small, I walk briskly.  When I left the earlier party, a few furtive drops of rain touched my face.  Further along, two blocks, maybe three, I can see a shower under the street lights, which are few and far between.  I breathe a sigh when I get to a main intersection, with traffic and streetlights.  I cross to the other side, and then the bus passes by, going in my direction.  I suppose I could've tried to run for it, but my feet hurt, so I walk on.  The rain begins to soak through my jacket.

I remember as a preteen, or early teen, three of us sneaking out of a slumber party for the thrill of it, to see if we could get away with it.  Some story about needing a pillow, when everyone else had fallen asleep, we slipped outside, the air chilly, the streets dark, spooky and exciting at the same time.  A car of older teens pulling up beside us, and I was afraid, but one friend kept her cool.  They left us alone.  First we snuck into one of our houses, then mine, where we ate chocolate cake: I don't know how we didn't wake anyone up.  Then back to the party, and in through a sliding glass door.  In the morning, no one believed us.  We never did bring back any pillows.

Rain falls harder, the sidewalks glistens, puddles form.  People are sitting in the bus shelters, but I think the wait will be long, and it's late.  They are probably just trying to get out of the rain.  I walk on the other side of the street.  More walls, there is a loneliness to the night, a separation of those behind those walls, inside, and me, out here, gradually getting more soaked, and picking up the pace because it's late.

At home, I hang my jacket to dry, drenched through.  35 minutes door-to-door.  In the end, I guess I could've called a cab.