She walked alone through the streets of SoHo. It didn't matter which streets, it's just that these were streets she had once walked before with much different meaning. These were streets she walked when she felt like she was untouchable. She felt slightly nauseous at a memory of herself telling a good friend,
"I can't believe it, but my life right now is practically perfect."
It was way too late. The party she was at -- streets behind. Slightly sobered, but still, a taste of salt and lime on her lips from her last margarita. She stumbled on the cobblestone streets, glad no one was around to see the tears.
"I am not crying. I am fine. I am good. I am better off alone."
She pushed on. Two drunken girls passed her, not noticing the devastation on her face. Their laughs echoed in the street, and a full cab sped by her.
"I couldn't get into that even if it were empty."
Her tears left her outside.
A glowing 24-hour bodega ahead; she pushes on, pushes past.
The subway ahead; she walks past.
She pushes on, walking dozens and dozens of blocks, sobering up, the tears drying up. When she arrives at her new home, she shoves the key in the lock, trudges up the stairs, and tosses her purse on the table by the door. Her cat meows.
"That's right, Sinda," she tells the cat. "I'm home. I'm going to make us some food and I'm so glad to see you. There's no place I'd rather be."
She remembers what her tears and drunkenness prevented her from remembering earlier, remembers reasons why she had ended everything.
It's not perfect, but it would be again - someday. She knew it, she just had to walk there, walk her way all the way to perfection.