The Witching Hour
The Witching Hour
“Take the next left.” The old woman nodded nearly imperceptibly at the turn that would take them off the wide boulevard and down a dimly lit side street.
The cabbie glanced at her in the mirror and then at the meter.
What did he care, the old woman wondered. It’s not like he was getting better fares at this hour.
The old taxi glided like a brick on oil across four empty lanes of traffic and waited at the turn signal. In the backseat the old woman clutched her teal, leather purse on her lap, nails digging into the side. She gazed out the driver’s side window, watching as the housing complexes grew rattier.
At one point this area had been new and full of anticipation for new beginnings. That was before even her time. She struggled to imagine what it had been like when it buzzed with fresh life. Buildings like these that were squeezed so tightly together probably appealed to young families, happy they could dabble in home ownership. Now they stood crumbling, unfit for the average person, but functional enough to house the unwanted, the mentally ill, the addicted.
