Yellow Cold

Michael Ladanyi

She stepped into cold dark of the doorway, fumbled with keys, noticing many large chips in the red brick landing beneath her feet. Eager rain poured into them, overfilling worn crevices, each polluted drop drowning so another could drink. She suddenly thought of broken teeth. Her fingers were numb, her cheek swollen. The outer door yielded to her weary push. She guided her daughter in ahead of her, though careful to take a quick look back first, gauging the length of every shadow, waiting, though none moved. Down a long, green-walled hall, paint far past peeling, up two flights of stairs, key in brass deadbolt, then inside. She put her daughter to bed, observing with more than a little regret, the dark half-circles beneath her blue eyes. In the kitchen she opened the fridge: milk, wine, orange juice bought by mistake. Wine. Fat glass and a menthol. She cracked the small window over the sink and sat in one of the two dark brown, vinyl chairs, at one end of a small veneer, lime- colored table. She stared through the window. The corner streetlight streamed pale-thin through steady rain, much different than car-glow that swam by with long swishing tire sounds, its color yellow cold.