West Town
- Ben Rogerson
- Jul 9, 2015
- 1 min read
The moon illuminates the empty Savers’ lot. Her cart rattles across the pavement. At the edge of the lot, she slows the cart. The wheels don’t lock. She keeps pushing with an added strength.
The sign reads dead end, but she doesn’t give notice. It takes all her strength to lift the front end, then the back over the curb onto the damp grass. Hunched over, head down, arms extended, the cart inches along the muddied path.
She pauses, lifts her head, and wipes the sweat from her face with the bottom of her t-shirt. Moonlight bounces off the steel track. She turns the cart and follows the tracks. They lead into darkness. The wheels lock.
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