My Cardboard Balcony

The Blue Line by Belinda Roddie When I drive away from the city, I straddle the blue line, that subtle, glowing guide across the bridge where shadows contemplate suicide. Once the Golden Gate is behind me, the blue splits into two, like long, outstretched fingers ready to catch stars before they fall. God, that sounds pretentious, and yet it's so appropriate, because San Francisco is full of poets who want to believe that falling stars are a sign of good luck, and that bridges connect us rather than divide. By the time I reach suburbia, the lines have disappeared. Some might say to me that the blue is just an illusion brought on by the grins of street lamps and a damp, dim sky, but how can I pretend that it's imaginary when it was simply too afraid to follow me home?

The little girl was folding and unfolding her napkin, putting it on her lap and then taking it off, tucking in the corners and then tugging them back out. She seemed nervous, fidgety, under the shadow of who I assumed to be her father. Her father wore boots as black as his beard, which almost tickled the belly part of his plaid shirt. He grunted over the lip of his beer and did not speak much, and all his child kept doing was contorting the napkin until it, predictably, began to tear.