Moving on

It looked like rain again, she saw.  The same grey skies and precipitation greeted her, as they had every day so far, when she opened the iron and glass doors that provided access to the small space the realtor had laughingly described as a ‘spacious balcony’.

At least it wasn’t cold,  she reminded herself.  If evenings had a little more edge to them, she’d found a crocheted shawl in one of the cardboard boxes of clothes that littered one corner of the space. She was nominally calling that area her bedroom, since it was where the bed had ended up.

She hadn't cried. Even when she'd found the shawl, though it had taken nearly all her will power.

The apartment, like so much else in her life at that moment, was new. New to her, anyway. The echoing space, with its iron pillars and high ceilings, varnished wooden floors and huge windows, had once been a busy warehouse floor in the middle of a flourishing industrial city. But times had changed, and there were no more ships at anchor in the bay, waiting for the barges and scows to bring them the fruits of the city's factories.  Now, the area was somewhat gentrified, the remaining warehouses turned into spacious, expensive apartments, looking out onto plazas with coffee shops and chic bars, with decks over the waterfront. It was where young, bohemian-minded folk, chose to lay down their hats for a while.  They came to paint, to write, to sculpt.  Expressing themselves in a myriad of different ways, groping for a little notoriety, if not fame, before Daddy's money ran out.

She stood on the balcony, her touseled short red hair lifted gently by the breeze, looking out at the patterns of the rain against the dull waters of the river, until the smell of coffee, drifting languidly from the macchinetta on the stove in the kitchen area, pulled her away from the scene.

The End

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