Whistle

I walk alone down the small cobblestone street. The rain stopped a few hours ago, but in this musty corridor of the city, the puddles are still deep, and from the few working lamp posts water drips down onto the unsuspecting passerby. I whistle quietly, a swing in my step as I walk down the sidewalk. My steps echo on the high stone walls of the buildings that are on both sides.

It's nearly 11, but my shift ended only a few moments ago. With it heading into the holiday mania, the big box stores are going to get even busier, and hours later; so I know that I should appreciate my comparatively early clock out time of 10:30. Even at this supposedly late hour, the city is still alive. I hear people yelling, and dogs joining in, almost as if it was just for fun. As I near the main road in front of me, an ambulance blazes past with a deafening roar of its siren.

I stop a few feet from the main road and take a deep breath of the damp city air. It refreshes me, almost as if a speck of energy from each of the city's 2 million residents comes into my lungs with each breath of air. I relax my shoulders and adjust my head into my perfect salesperson posture. I put on a face of confidence and hope that this will not be the second night of my life that I become the target of a drunk's fantasy.

It happened last year. On Christmas Eve, well, not really, I didn't get off of work until 4am. I was walking down the very road I am about to now. I remember it so clearly. I was walking past a sleeping person, but apparently they weren't asleep. They tried to...well, I shouldn't think of that now. I have to be strong.

I step out into the street, and I walk with purpose. I avoid people's eyes, and try not to jump at the sounds of people's voices. The swing in my step is gone, and my whistle died a long time ago. I wait at the intersection, with the musty air, stuffed full of exhaust from passing vehicles filling my lungs. I wonder to myself why it still bothers me so much even though it's already been a year. I feel like I should be other it. My housemate, the only one I told, says that it's normal, but, it's been a year, I want to be OK again. The light changes and I walk across the street.

I miss the days that I walked without fear, the days before I was attacked. Taking a deep breath of the city air, I look up at the buildings and try to relax. I notice that a few of the windows above have lights on, but most are off. I force the spring in my step to come back, but fail to whistle, only a puff of air comes. At the curb I watch the passing cars, and then, at an opening, cross onto my street. An autumn breeze rustles through the trees and my hair. I pull my jacket closer around me, remembering when a chill breeze reminded me of hot chocolate and warm blankets and not wandering hands as it does now.

I look at my apartment building's front steps to see my housemate waiting, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of hot coffee. Their nose is pink, but their eyes are bright as they meet mine. I smile, and jog up steps to them. Hearing their greeting, feeling the city air around me, seeing the bright newly fixed street lamps lining my street, I feel a lightness I haven't felt in a while. Noticing, I pause and turn, looking out at my street. My street, the street I live on, and feel content. As I turn back to my slightly cold housemate, I greet them in return, and as I step through the front door with them I begin to whistle.

The End