the avenue

He keeps his head down against the wind as he quickly walks across the pavement. He looks up once, checking the street name, before pulling up his coat collar and ducking down again. He shoves his hands into his pockets, willing himself to keep moving forward.
The atmosphere on this street feels distant, uncomfortably so. The narrow white houses rise neatly above him, their faces calmly eyeing him as he steps past. Low wrought iron gates coldly stand between him and their frozen yards. Unfazed, he continues.
His breath comes out in short puffs of air, condensing in the late winter chill. His fingers trace the edges of a folded note in his pocket. Its corners feel worn from being folded and refolded a hundred times over the last few days. He doesn't need it anymore though, as he's memorized the address scribbled on its grainy surface.

He'd been at his tiny video rental store last week, crouching in front of a shelf, reorganizing the foreign films section, when he caught a silver glint in the corner of his eye. He had turned to find whatever it was, only to see an oddly familiar pair of worn sandals and a bright toe ring. As he turned back to the shelf, he shook his head at the wearer's silly disregard of the fact that it was barely 40 degrees out. Then it struck him where he had seen those sandals before.
He'd been with her when she bought them, still in her I'm-off-to-see-the-world phase. He hadn't believed her for months until she's stopped by his door to say goodbye. He'd even laughed when she invited him to come along and be her personal camera guy. But when she turned back down his front steps and began walking away, he could only stand silently in the doorframe, watching her go, his smile stale on his lips.
Now she stood only a few shelves down, but he stayed put, continuing to watch her from where he sat. She walked up to the front desk with an old zombie horror, the kind they used to watch together years ago, flinching and then laughing at the squirting blood that was so obviously fake. He watched her drop a few coins into the small film fund jar before turning and walking out the door. And as he had stood in that doorframe, he sat frozen again, staring at the familiar sight of her back moving away.
Later that night, as he was closing up, he pulled the fund jar out to add its contents to his growing pile of cash. He was saving up to buy the videocamera of his dreams. But when he emptied out the fund jar that night, a small buttermilk white note fell into the pile of coins and dollar bills. He picked it up, read his name on the cover, and opened it to find the strange address he now knew by heart.

He stares up at 1620 Forres Avenue, squinting against the sudden gust of icy wind. He hesitates a moment before pushing open the front gate. Wilted flowers fill the front window sills. So like her, he thought, trying to grow nature in the middle of winter. She'd argue that the calendar claimed spring had arrived, despite the clear proof that the weather here didn't follow any scheduled routine.
He climbs the high steps to the front door and pulls a bright orange daisy from inside his coat. Slowly and gently, he places the flower's stem in the door's knocker. Stepping back to admire the burst of color against the dark paint, he begins to back down the steps.
He is out the gate and almost halfway down the street before he turns again. Even from the corner, he can still see the dot of orange amongst the bleak monotony of houses. He smiles as he wraps his coat tighter around himself, glancing down the street for any oncoming cars. He jogs across the street, turns one last time, and walks away.