Watching my heavy boots cracking the glass glinting and multiplying their reflections along with the damp, stained papers and bottle caps. Through the small and sparsely attended lot filled with the small echoes of my steps going to and stopping at the sounds of the distant bell tower marking the hour — eleven o'clock. I sat down on the curb tucked between the power boxes and emptied and adored bike racks below the rustling of the September wind. Silver-backed leaves flicker with help from the dim orange streetlight spilling out into the one-ways dancing on the green marble store facade.  
          In my quiet corner where I have often sat at the end of my days, I hunch over the heavy bag on the pavement. The change at the bottom rustling as I take out a phone, dialing to call them after staring at the blank screen. I often called them, or at least wanted to, because they always seem to know everything. I hung up the last time they spoke though, I did not like how they were talking to me. It reminded me too much about the only face I looked at and asked answers of over the amateurly carved marble tables inside and leaving in an ode to defacement. They are now out of sight taking part of my years and answers with them without remembering me hoping they have long forgotten my face.  
         But now I'll really converse, and they will answer with a higher and softer voice with more understanding and patience than mine will ever have. I think I'll give them half of it and half of me, so they do not need to locate me or know me. And we will both leave this wondering if we did the right thing and what is next for our conversation. When I hear that voice again, I know I'll stop reinvigorated by the fear of recognition and will answer in a voice lower than my own.