There were moments that she loved this city. Brief periods of time that provided her comfort and ease.
Sunday mornings, early, 5 AM, before the sun fully rose and the stars, what few were visible, still shone.
She saw this hour often, as she owned a dog who liked to relieve itself at daybreak and because she fancied herself a runner and all runners refute logic and reason.
The city would be hushed. Still. Very distantly, she could still hear the hum of traffic and, yet, for a moment, for the briefest of flashes, the city seemed to belong to her.
The air would be cool, the pavement, solid. The urgency of a people constantly behind, ceaselessly slave to Time, would soften.
She could faintly see Orion’s outline and she would forget that he was placed in the sky by a distraught lover and that there was a slight chance those stars had burnt out long ago.
It was on those very quiet mornings that she finally felt comfortable, at ease with her position there in the half-dark.
On one of those very quiet mornings, she decided the half-dark was no place to live.