A little further down, I passed the bus stop. Once, after a fight, I'd jumped out of the car and bolted. He chased me down, grabbed my arm, and pulled me into his chest. I struggled twice but couldn't break free. He told me to knock it off, said we'd talk about it at home. I said I wasn't going home. So he threw me over his shoulder.
I kicked him. He smacked my butt and said if I kicked him again, he'd toss me in the dumpster.
The people waiting at the stop all laughed.
I laughed too. And somewhere in the laughing, I stopped being angry.
I was twenty-four then. He was twenty-six.
I thought that was forever.
Now I looked up at the same bus stop. Empty. Rain had soaked the bench through. A flyer on the ad board was waterlogged, its edges peeling, drooping down like something giving up.
I stood there for a while. Drenched to the bone. Hair plastered to my face. Water running down my neck and pooling inside my collar.
Then I kept walking.
At the apartment gate, Old Mr. Barrow leaned out of the guard booth. "Oh, honey, look at you! You're soaked through. Come in and dry off!"
I waved him off, swiped my card, and went in.