J Bov Explodes Rhetorically

Despite the howling wind the click of the lock is cannon fire in the empty street.
I light a cigarette and pull my coat closer around me, setting off for home.
Save for the occasional car rushing by I’m alone, I take a drag on my smoke, really only to keep my fingers warm.
A torn plastic bag blows by with a hiss before getting caught, ragged, on a dull railing.
An alarm is wailing, but nobody is coming to stop it.

A small man in an ill-fitting suit passes, head bowed against the incessant drizzle, and shoots me a look; half confusion, half camaraderie. ‘Why are you out? Why am I out, at that.’

I am chased through the centre of town by sirens, distant but becoming less so, past the club staff setting out the smoking area. They talk in subdued tones, it’s hard work and they’re not going to be making much money on a night like this.

Stamping my feet, waiting for a bus I hear an argument from a nearby street. Some disagreement over money or love or both. It’s never anything else.
The bus arrives, flourescent lighting and a musty smell my companions as we pass through alternating pools of orange light that only serve to make the darkness around them darker. I disembark on a pitch black road, deafened by the wind which gains that much more power this high up and unhindered by buildings, and make the journey to my home.

I flop into a chair and wonder why I’m still here. Not long now.

Huddersfield at night.