Streetlights―Sarah W.B.
I get off late from work in the precinct, and I always go back home and fall on the bed in exhaustion. Honestly, if anybody thinks work in forensics has the glamour and suspense of TV, they should quit the dream while they can.
Because nothing happens, and everyday is the same.
Bad coffee, black eyes, dried pens, dried blood, horrible bosses, disrespectful coworkers, and one good friend in the workplace that you only talk to in the walk back home; if you can muster up the energy to have a conversation.
Until he came around.
Him, with his dark and messy hair.
Him, with his tall and heavy coat that perfectly matches his height.
Him, with the speedy way he speaks. A way that I seem to keep up with in some odd and distant way.
Him, with his solidarity.
A solidarity that is prominent in the dark, under the flickering streetlight.
Coming off from work was boring, hell going to that god damn precinct was torture before his royal peculiarity showed up.
Before he stood everyday , at the pitch dark of midnight, under the streetlight staring into nothingness.
I made small talk a day after he came, he ignored me and went back to his work station.
I discussed the work at hand with him the very next day, and that is when he spoke the longest..
And the fastest.
But nothing compared to the realness of the conversation I had when I tapped his shoulder while he stood under the streetlight.
He was rude, imposing, obnoxious, and don’t get me started with pretentious. But he was the realest thing I had, and the most fulfilling thing about work.
From there, we started standing together under the streetlight.
A day with a coffee in our hands and the other with hands in our pocket. We talked about philosophy, criminology, books, and never about people.
Now, I never loved him like that. He was my coworker and best friend.
The streetlight wasn’t the same after he left.
The precinct wasn’t the same after he left.
I wasn’t the same after he was shot dead under the streetlight where he stood the most.
I still stand there, everyday, holding on to the realest thing that has ever happened to me.
Because nothing happens, and everyday is the same.
Bad coffee, black eyes, dried pens, dried blood, horrible bosses, disrespectful coworkers, and one good friend in the workplace that you only talk to in the walk back home; if you can muster up the energy to have a conversation.
Until he came around.
Him, with his dark and messy hair.
Him, with his tall and heavy coat that perfectly matches his height.
Him, with the speedy way he speaks. A way that I seem to keep up with in some odd and distant way.
Him, with his solidarity.
A solidarity that is prominent in the dark, under the flickering streetlight.
Coming off from work was boring, hell going to that god damn precinct was torture before his royal peculiarity showed up.
Before he stood everyday , at the pitch dark of midnight, under the streetlight staring into nothingness.
I made small talk a day after he came, he ignored me and went back to his work station.
I discussed the work at hand with him the very next day, and that is when he spoke the longest..
And the fastest.
But nothing compared to the realness of the conversation I had when I tapped his shoulder while he stood under the streetlight.
He was rude, imposing, obnoxious, and don’t get me started with pretentious. But he was the realest thing I had, and the most fulfilling thing about work.
From there, we started standing together under the streetlight.
A day with a coffee in our hands and the other with hands in our pocket. We talked about philosophy, criminology, books, and never about people.
Now, I never loved him like that. He was my coworker and best friend.
The streetlight wasn’t the same after he left.
The precinct wasn’t the same after he left.
I wasn’t the same after he was shot dead under the streetlight where he stood the most.
I still stand there, everyday, holding on to the realest thing that has ever happened to me.
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