cold hand. probably from leaning against the glass. pull hand away from glass and gaze longingly out at the darkened street. a single street lamp illuminates the block despite several attempts to get the other fixed. mother is worried. mother doesn't think that i should be living here.

standing, eyes fixed on the trees outside. a cold breeze blows and thoughts of the new buds, rose-colored, if memory serves, fear that they will die. spring was just around the corner before winter returned. the wind rattles the glass set into the front door. hand presses again against the glass.

still cold.

it's too late to be waiting. to late to stand here, hand cold against the glass instead of warm, surrounding a hot cup of tea. music. there should be music and tea, instead of wind and rattling glass. hand reaches up to the deadbolt, idly twists the knob. twist. release. twist. release. twist release. slip and it snaps shut. jump back and worry that the neigbors heard. it's too late to be standing by the door, playing with locks. waiting.

headlights down the block, coming closer, lighting up trees, cold trees shivering in the too-cold wind. long shadows growing short then falling back into dark. still waiting. nothing is lit up by the car. it pauses at the end of the block, dutifully rolling through the stop sign and turning left. still waiting.

look left. pause. cat races across the sidewalk, over garbage can, into street, into darkness. look right. pause. nothing quite so exciting.

take hand off of glass. too cold. open door, stop playing with lock. it's too late to be waiting.