The sky above does little to alleviate the heavy melancholy that's surrounded her ever since she arrived back in the small town she once called home. It's a mix of blues and pinks and purples and it makes her think of cotton candy and first kisses. It seems too pretty for the mood she's in, but it's a delicate type of beautiful, like it could leave any time, and that matches her mental state so maybe it is appropriate.
Looking around the neighborhood she grew up in, it's hard to notice any huge differences. The paint on the homes is a bit more worn, the cars a bit newer than the models of her youth, but all in all little had changed, and it makes her ache at how out of place she feels in the place she once belonged.
She stares at the cement on the sidewalk, taking care to step over the cracks as she makes her way down the road in her memories. Instead of the unfamiliar children running around the Ferguson's yard, she sees herself and her old neighbor, her cousins and the kids from across the street. She sees bubbles flying through the air and laughter tickling her ears, reminiscent of a time before life caught up with them all. The kids across the street have long since moved away, though, and her neighbor is serving time for a crime no one likes to talk about (there's something about small towns and human flaws, she thinks to herself, but she can't quite recall it at the moment).
A stop sign at the corner of First and Scott Street is new, she notices. It hadn't been necessary when she was a kid. A call from her mom a few years back briefly nags at her memory. Something about a young boy hit by a car going too fast, driven by a kid drinking too much.
"Hermione?" a hesitant voice calls out, bringing up its own set of memories.
She tenses, squeezing the thin, tall beer can in her left hand. If there had been anything left, she'd have spilt some on herself. Fortunately, she'd learned to cope with her feelings by drinking them and she remained dry.
"Fred! Wow, it's been a while." Her smile is brittle, her eyes glassy, but if he notices he doesn't say anything. "How's Ginny? I heard she graduated recently!"
"Yeah, she's onto her master's next," he exhales, running a hand through his short, auburn locks. "Crazy how time flies."
"I know, it makes me feel so old!" she jokes, making light of the toll life has taken on her spirit.
"You old? What does that make me?" Crow's feet border his ever-laughing eyes and parenthesis make his smile look like a secret she'd not been privy to in a long while. It only makes him more charming while she knows her sallow cheeks and flat hair reveal life's seemingly constant victory over her.
An awkward silence encompasses them as his eyes dart around her face, searching for what she doesn't know. It's not like he'll find much, maybe some stress about how to pay rent or anger at whatever deity thought it appropriate to curse both of her parents with dementia and leave her the sole person to deal with their care.
"How's playing the drums?" She eyes his fingers for signs he still plays but is instead assaulted by memories of them running over her cheeks and neck, down her back and over her hips. She wonders if they'd feel the same now or if they'd be rougher with age or smoother with tolerance to the instrument he'd been addicted to in their youth.
"Same old, it's a lot of shit to carry," the left side of his mouth lifts as he glances around. She supposes he's being as forthcoming as she is, but she never imagined they would be the people having a conversation saying nothing.
She hums nonetheless and pushes on. "And the band?" George and Lee's faces flash through her mind and she aches for their shenanigans for a moment. She heard Lee had suffered a heroin overdose a couple years back and can't imagine his impish grin not lighting up the world. Life doesn't discriminate in its victims, though, and she knows that better than anyone.
"Everyone's getting married and having babies," his eyes flicker towards her stomach briefly, no doubt remembering the breakdown of their relationship. She'd learned through years of therapy that he would have taken the death of their unborn child as hard as she did, but she didn't know that as a nineteen-year-old. All she had been able to see was her own failure. He hadn't been responsible for bringing their baby into the world and so he couldn't possibly relate.
She nods, looking around again. The giggles and screams from the kids across the street hurt more this time and his eyes look like a what-if, his hair a piece of something she'd once dreamt of. Her hand clenches around the empty beer can again, wishing it was full.
She reaches out, grasping his upper arm. "Anyways, don't be a stranger."
He nods, pulling her into the sort of hug that makes her feel miles away from him. It's the hug you give to be polite, grasping each other stiffly, uncomfortably. Her stomach clenches and she waves before hurrying away, the navy sky masking her tears while the bright stars light her way home.
