Her Name in the Paper

The article was about a zoning board—

a variance request, a parking lot.

Her name was in the list. I read the word

Nay beside it and I could not

keep scrolling. Just sat there.

The room went quiet in the way rooms do

when something old comes back to share

the space with you.

I never called. I had the number—

three months I had it, set the phone

down twice. That was the end of summer.

Then fall. Then it was gone.

The window closed the way they always close:

not with a sound, just the slow accumulation

of days past the point where it still shows

as possible. That's the whole explanation.

She voted Nay on a parking variance.

I closed the tab. Sat there.

The cursor blinked. I have no further evidence

of what I owe or whether she's aware.