drinking a cold cup of tea.

When I was a young boy I used to ride around town on a pushbike and yell out to shop owners, and call to my friends. Sometimes they couldn't (or wouldn't) come out to play, so I was resume by myself. I was invincible.

It's getting colder. I wrap my shawls around me like an old woman, my knuckles swelling and my breath heavy. I shouldn't go outside as much as I should. "The cold air could cause pnumonia" Dr Randall said, sitting ten feet too far away from me. Well, I said to my own self, my stale home air could give me bad memories.
I do not feel old. I pump gas at the station and make my way to the school. As a woman with long legs, red pumps and sexy salt and pepper hair stalks out of the front doors (it's a Thursday, she always finishes early), I surprise her. She sighs. A weak smile, as always.
"Frank," she says. Her lips move slowly.
"Rose."
She's the Rose of my life, at the moment. But she does not know. "Are you well?" she makes small talk as I make real talk. I wish I had flowers. What flowers? Are roses too romantic, daisies too youthful, lilies too much like a wedding?
"I gotta go, Frank," she says shortly after she asks about my doctor appointments. Fuck those. I brush it away and I'm sure she noticed my staring at the ground. I saw her blood red shoes hit the pavement and dissappear into her car. My reflection frowns up at me from a dirty grey puddle, grey like the day, grey like now, grey like my life.
But not my heart. My heart is full. That is why it hurts.