08 March 2009

Her mother'd sent a letter.
How's the apartment? Drab, no? I told you it would be. I'll send some paper and canned soups. Heaven knows what you've been eating. Virginia is gorgeous this time of year. Ethan says hello. Love,
Sidda dipped each corner of the notebook paper in her teacup until the words blurred together and the red and blue ink of the paper slid down the sides. She wouldn't eat the soup when it came. She'd throw it down the fire escape, or leave it in Felix's tunnel. Her mother's good intentions made Sidda cringe.
Sidda was nineteen last year, when she'd left. She'd never left Virginia before; the tomato plants and curling vines had kept her occupied, blind to opportunity. Blind to monotony.
She felt the paper fibers sag and melt.

Outside, the streetlamps made the street glow. Like long glowworms, Sidda thought. She dipped back into the alley, where'd she left her things the night before. As she turned to leave the dingy, dark corridor, she passed the noodle stand. The dank smell of soggy noodles tickled her senses, and she grinned. Unconciously, she ran her fingertips along the stand. Her nails scraped lightly. The man watched her curiously as she stepped out of the alley, back onto the glowing streets.
Around the corner, Sidda rang the bell. The door to the costume shop creaked open, the musty smell curling out of the crack. Two beady eyes, glazed, peered at Sidda before the door opened a little wider, just wide enough for Sidda to slip through the crack into the shop.

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