Green light.

You waltz out of the tavern. Yeah, you waltz, please note that you do not stumble. Aya looks at you with a face that's strange, and you realize she thinks it's the last time you'll see each other for a while. No no no you say, I'm seeing you Friday, it's not over yet, not yet. Now you stumble, but you're just giddy.

Red light. Green light.

You're seven and you're sitting on the patio with your feet in a bucket of soapy water, and Caitlin Walt has her feet in there too. You're wearing a shirt that says Earth Day and the a's are shared, you made it yourself, you don't realize how great you are but you'll understand when you're older and not so great anymore. Caitlin Walt goes by Sarah in high school, you can't help feeling like she's not worth so much when she goes tossing away her name. You'd like to go by Joanna Turner but let's be honest that would be stupid.

Red light. Green light.

You walk up to a pile of clothes on the street and are about to kick them high up into the air in your glee but you check yourself because you're not wearing proper shoes. You dodge right just in time and see that huddled amongst the clothes is a person, lying right in the middle of the sidewalk on top of a drain vent to keep warm. You shudder and hope they're alive but that's all you do.

Red light. Green light.

You're fifteen and you're perched right up on top of the fence, one leg on the cemetery side, the other leg almost over, when your pants snag on the chain link and tear clear through the pocket. You say fuck and you're a little shocked because it's the first time you've said That Word out loud. You see Travis and the others a little ahead of you and you're aware of a broad search light creeping slowly towards your back; you drop down and sit behind a stone with one leg stretched out, breathing harder that seems necessary, and you're feeling quite old, and you're grinning.

Red light. Green light.

You're twenty and you're sitting on the cold stone tiles in the hallway in the DR, and Julia and Kathy have gone to bed, and you and Natalie are wearing shorts and long sleeved tee shirts and planning the future. You've never been happier.

Red light. Green light.

You're heading up Market and you get to the beginning of the slight hill. You see the sign that says Awesome Hot Cakes and note like you always note that the first E is just a W turned sideways. You wonder if you'll ever be able to see that with your eyes without noting it with your brain, and you calculate roughly that you'll probably only see that sign 26 more times. You decide to count and after 20 times you'll try the hot cakes. You promise.

Red light. Green light.

You're twenty and you're sitting on the cold stone cement on the driveway in Pleasant Hill, and Mum and Dad are inside, and you and Natalie are wearing skirts and tee shirts and you're crushing the future, you alone. Natalie is crying and you feel terribly powerful because you are the one wreaking all this havoc, responsible for all these tears, but with this power you feel cold and alone.

Red light. Green light.

You're twenty-two and you're in a shabby lovely hotel room in Paris. The windows reach from the ceiling to the floor and they have them flung wide open, even though it's past midnight and freezing. You finish the hand of cribbage and you frantically search for something more, one other thing you have to do, a last task or question or triviality that keeps you there just a couple more mintues, but the time has come to say goodbye, to hug as tight as you can with hopes that it'll last longer that way, to smile and convey meaning with your eyes, you should be good at that by now. You do all that and make your way down the crooked stairs, blind and weak with crying, onto the street, and now you're really stumbling on the uneven cobblestones, and through the haze and the blur at the very back of your head you're mildly annoyed that you're not dressed nearly as well as the people smoking outside the cafe on the corner.

Red light. Green light.

You wait for the green hand and look up 18th Street towards the park as you cross. You think for the hundredth time that you wouldn't really have to leave that block if you didn't want to, and you wonder for the two hundredth time whether you could support yourself working at Faye's. An old man, face inhuman, stops you in your tracks and asks if you can help him out with a single penny. Your bag is lousy with pennies. You tell him no and the worst part of you makes you reach down into your bag and rattle your pennies with your fingertips as you brush past him. You take out your keys and spread out the two square ones on your palm. You can tell which one is cleaner even though the difference is now virtually imperceptible; you use that one to open the iron gate. A bill and a postcard. What day was this? Oh yeah, Wednesday.

Red light.