Porcelain.
She was late coming home from work again. The buildings had already swallowed up the sun, and the false twilight that descends upon cities after the sun falls in through the spaces between buildings had begun to fall. Only a few sparsely passing people still walked the streets, all dressed smartly, and talking business into cell phones.
She pulled her coat tighter around herself, bringing her shoulders in as she to retain warmth, half-heartedly kicking at the dirty city snow on the sidewalk. A piece of it fell into her shoe, but she kept her pace despite the cold discomfort.
The last rays of sun sank away into the horizon. Her shadow disappeared in the gaps between streetlights.
Despite the cold weather and stinging cold wind, she turned into the harbor road. The salt water was as vengeful as ever, the caps on waves the exact color of fresh-fallen snow that she had only known before the city, the water beneath, the force behind the tips of the waves, the soiled snow she was now familiar with.
She leaned into the water, half over the low marble wall, the salt spray saturating her face in small droplets.
The painted black-metal-and-glass plagiarized Japanese lanterns ignited, bathing her in a soft glowing light. She shook out her hair, a flowing black curtain that enveloped her, and walked away from the strip of lighting.
Her foot slid on concealed ice, her legs out beneath her in spite of the futile attempts to regain her balance.
She grabbed the black iron railing desperately to steady herself. A run was apparent in her pantyhose, an ivory white patch of skin showing through the fake-tan beige covering her legs.
The final ferry of the night pulled into the harbor. She faced it, and stood, staring at the passengers getting off. A few winter tourists and the six-man crew evacuated the vessel. The captain stayed behind, gazing out over the water.
he caught sight of her and winked as he saluted her, his fat hand completely overshadowing his deep-set eyes. She turned her face away from him, and he gave up, his heavy-soled boots ringing out an empty staccato on the stone pavilion.
Another zephyr of wind came off of the waves. She shivered, closed her eyes against it, and rubbed her fragile papery fingers together in her jacket pockets.
Her fingers ceased to warm regardless of the friction. She pulled her hands from her pockets>
A fine trail of porcelain dust fell from her fingertips.
She glanced around her for someone else’s face, but saw no one.
The wind picked up, faster and colder, more forceful. She watched it pick up the flakes that fell from her body, the white miasma thickening as the air quickened.
A short street punk with only a few layers of clothing shivered as he walked along the lit strip of the dock. White snow whirled in the air, a light flurry over the area. He walked quickly, in search of an empty bench to spend the night on.
He rubbed his thin fingers together in an attempt to warm them, making a note to pick up gloves with any money he might make that week.
For a split second, a bare skeleton smiling too wide, its eyes two black voids, appeared in his field of vision. As he watched, riveted, it crumbled into a pile of dust, the wind spreading its remains evenly over the dock.
He shook his head, trying to fight against the heroin drowsiness, erasing the image from his mind.
When his eyes opened, there was only a fine dusting of pure white snow, untread and unlike any snow he had seen before in the city.
He spotted an empty bench under the cover of the pagoda-like structure in the center of the pavilion, his footsteps leaving black-brown marks on the virgin snow.
