Priscilla watched as the cars drove by out her window.
She wanted to raise a hand and wave. Wanted to say hello to the people in the cars, talk to them, hear their stories. She wanted to leave the house, but didn’t, knowing it would ultimately make no difference. No one would answer her. Or if they did, they wouldn’t respond.
In the worst case: Sure, they would say Let’s hang out. Let’s be friends. Here’s my number. And she would call, or text, or try anything. And they wouldn’t respond. Or they would say they were busy. And they would always be busy, or would always say they’d get back to her. And she would sit, and sit, and would hear nothing.
Priscilla watched the vehicles go past, roaring or putting, some filled with people, most solitary, like her. If only, she thought, I could talk to you, solo people. We could be alone together. Maybe be a little less alone. Maybe.
