The street sees everything. It saw you arriving earlier, hope in your heart and money in your pocket. It sees you stumbling out at closing time, somewhat less hopeful and with a few crumpled wads of soggy cash left to your name. It feels your toes wavering tentatively between your car in the parking lot and the after-hours bar down the way. It lays beneath you all broken glass and crinkled cellophane, with no judgment for whatever you decide. When your shoes invariably carry you in the direction of more alcohol it throws no obstacles in your way, aside from the odd displaced brick—which is really more the sidewalk’s fault.

The street sees you later under the harsh yellow glow of its lights, vomiting into a concrete planter full of tangled weeds and other assorted refuse. It sees you even later still, bathed in no light at all as you stand pissing against the side of a brick wall. It does not opine when you splash your own feet with urine and decide that probably no one will notice. Maybe you didn’t notice it yourself.

Tomorrow the street will see you strolling to the grocery store in the bright happy sunshine, shades protectively sheltering your bleary, wearied eyeballs. It sees you picking up cigarettes and comfort foods to nurse your hangover and then silently the street observes you carrying those overloaded bags back home, your feet somewhat steadier than the night before.

The street sees you racing flat-footed to your car at 7:55 on Monday morning for that interview, and feels you peel away with a pang, hoping you come back soon. When you do the street is there for you, though it’s littered with cigarette butts and condom wrappers – that nagging detritus of the weekend’s shame. But it welcomes you home with sun-soaked asphalt, washing you in the one last remnant of a long, hot summer.

The street sees you on Wednesday afternoon, surefootedly leading your prospect into a business lunch, smiling your large, false smile and flashing cash you can ill-afford, hoping to get that commission, get that job.

The street has seen your kind before. It’s seen all you can do. You cannot impress it, you cannot shock it, you cannot make it angry. The street is well-versed in the drunk and the sober, the calm and the frenzied, the hopeless and the hopeful. It has experienced all humanity has to offer. But even so, despite your ubiquity, you are a part of the street’s never-ending, ever-changing story, and to it you now belong.

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This work by superBadGirl is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. Based on a work at thegrandconspiracy.org.