She absorbed the cool late-Summer breeze that rushed in from the far window. It reminded her of the time she strolled along behind a man who caught her eye. He lingered of Dolce & Gabbana and kept his hair fitted perfectly to his head. His suit, a ravenous and newly pressed three piece that looked like it came out of Esquire magazine. She imagined his name was Brad, or Dave or … something quick to the tongue. She figured he was one of the many money hungry lawyers of upper Manhattan who liked to cut through Madison Square Park in a rush between appointments.
One night in 2008; she decidedly waited for him among the cooling summer night only to be let down when he strolled by her with a woman in 5th avenue attire. Her Chanel appearance crushed Cleona’s heart in one powerful blow to the chest.
She wept over him for at least three days on the rooftop of her 76th street Upper East Side apartment building. She’d oft peek o’er the edge down at the hustle and flow of large traffic and buzzing of life only to consider taking her own.
The thought of falling from that roof wearing a pure white dress with baskets full of red roses to accompany her was as appealing as an ice cream was in a decent summer day. She could nearly see herself falling slowly to the uncaring earth who she figured had forgotten about her anyway. The rain that came later almost played perfectly into her troubling reveries.
“Right”—Cleona walked away from the mirror and wrapped her eyes around a picture of another man who captured her interest—“you wouldn’t fancy Miss Chanel any more than me, now would you.”
He had dark brown eyes, and well-kept short brown hair that was combed to his right. She admired his stern visage complete with a cleft chin and how he appeared mighty and brilliant. She admired his shoulders and the little bit of the blue suit that was visible in the portrait.
She lie the portrait down flat, and placed red roses on either end. Her mind unraveled at the thought of making love to him and how he would press her naked body against the far window which faced the street. She’d leaned up against the window numerous times after all … She’d peer out into the busy nightlife of upper Manhattan and imagine what it would be like to accidentally fall though the window was too strong to give out.
They would be sorry then.
She switched on her iPod allowing the soothing melodies of Little Girl, Lost by the Doors to rape her ears.
Maybe I’m grieving?
She stare out nevertheless beyond her environs o’er a dark moonlit sea of rooftops and broken dreams and accepted a chest full of painful emptiness and a dying black heart.