What’s love? What’s love? Only flickers on a theater’s screen? In the empty corridor the woman waits and waits for the man who occupies her dreams. Minutes pass. Chin in hand, she contemplates a choice, wonders if she should leave or stay, heads toward the exit, but soon hesitates, turns back. Meanwhile, as the picture plays, as dim amber lights tinge her long blond hair, and like dwindling candles, fleck her tearful gaze, she affirms again that this is when and where they were to meet, how all along she knew he’s just one more who never really cared. Time to admit: breaking-up was long past due? No, no, she tells herself, he’s only late, but by now the silly movie’s almost through. The laughing crowd emerges, walking straight past her leaning tired against a wall. Lights go on; most go off. 12:38. It’s time to close. Beyond glass doors snow falls. On windows appear sickles and buds of frost. Finally, she goes, -- last to leave the darkened halls. Down a lit street she walks, alone with her thoughts. What’s love? -- she asks, -- for the lonely, for the lost?
Gregory E. Lucas writes fiction and poetry. His short stories and poems have appeared in many magazines such as The Horror Zine, Blueline, The Ekphrastic Review, Ekphrasis, and Dark Dossier.