Her blue Vespa was parked on the street, as she sat in the empty lot, drinking red wine.
It was early Sunday morning, and no one was about, the parties were now extinguished.
There was only a smattering of stars above, a few points of light, but they comforted her.
It was her birthday. It was an unusually warm morning in January. It was a sighing grace.
The stars would shine and the sun would rise for millions and billions of years yet.
She lay down in the cool grass, looked up at the stars that shone through in the city.
The red wine made her head spin, and she felt the world turn, and the starlight laugh.
It was her birthday. Her heart was wild and wanting to hear the stars, or God or her lover
return the beat of her heart, the fetid warmth of her breath, the wonder of her hope.
The stars would shine and the sun would rise, whatever the human race would do.
The sun was rising, and the sun would go from black to pink to blue, soothing, bright.
She got up from the grass, got on her Vespa, and hoped the one she loved, loved her.