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She ignored the marching bands, the applause after the floats, the clopping of horses and scouts singing songs. She promised herself one day she’d join the parade.
She’d tuned it out for a while and, missing the racket, went to the streets. They were empty. Her heart sank as she found only discarded noisemakers, leftover confetti. The parade was gone.
She couldn’t have missed it. She marched up the street defiantly, tears burning her eyes. Now, she would be the parade. Bystanders thought her ridiculous but she marched on, desperate for anyone to join in and keep the parade alive.
It’s very early and very cold, and she’s pulling her leash tight around the landing to the final steps. Suddenly, she stops.
A man is lying there. A few burned out candles by his face.
He’s startled and sits up. He’s young, with a scraggly beard and weary eyes, and lights the cigarette he already has pressed in his lips.
“We used to sit here and smoke,” he says. “But now, she’s gone.”
Gone? As in, dead? Or has she left him? I can’t think of what to say.
“Can I get by? My dog has to pee.”