...of lonesomeness

She loves you, she said.
She doesn't know what she feels, he said. She thinks she loves me.
After a moment Lauren began to shake, pushing the palms of her hands into her eyes to stop it; she cried on through the nigh, and let him hold her. He kicked the suitcase onto the floor and took off her clothes. He had her; but whereas before, always before, she had rested on his chest never wanting to leave him or lose him, this time she blinked at the walls, listening to him sleep, and realised she had come very close to doing it.
He told her the next morning he was leaving again, for Texas this time. Another race.
Another dusk, and from the window she saw one of the kittens in the street, and ran down the stairs to the front door and stood in the long shadow of the block that touched her feet. In the setting sun the windows of the street gleamed like gold teeth, and first in a low din, ascending to something like sirens, she heard all the cats the way she used to in thee fields. She opened her mouth to call them the way she used to; she was so alone she couldn't stand it. She opened her mouth again, closed it again. She said nothing, looking up at the cats watching her. She could see their eyes glimmering between the gold teeth of the buildings; the way they watched her she knew she didn't belong. One flash after another struck her. She stood in the light looking at all the cats far from her. She was terrified that she would call them and none of them would answer. After a while the cats turned from their posts and disappeared, leaving her there in the doorway.

[Days Between Stations, Erickson, S.]