[maryland]

Sunday night, I’m on the Metro, wearing a skirt and studying flashcards in my lap. Up out of the city and into the open air: the moon is low and orange and half-eroded. I get out at the suburban stop, and the train accelerates away above empty backyards. I walk alone from the station, through the neighborhood, all the time listening to the sort of music that’ll make you sad even if you weren’t before. Here, at nearly ten o’clock at night, the trees sound like sighing and everything seems a little lonely. A man stands in an open garage that’s lit white, packed with machinery and a vintage car. Someone runs a leaf blower in the dark. I stop under a streetlamp to write something down, hit the back button to repeat a song.