It was an altogether fine and silent night we were having on Monroe.
A mist of snow showered down to shush the tires of what little traffic traveled by going nowhere fast. The shower had already renewed and softened the contours of the crude heaps of the last week's snow and had sprayed white the bald spaces of sidewalk where snow had been worn away.
It hadn't yet lightened the brown slush at the curbs and street corners.
Standing underneath the remnant marquee of the onetime Monroe Theater, the lights from all the windows of Rite Aid's new store and the streetlight at the corner of Goodman caught straight falling lines of this precipitation and made evident in the air an otherwise stealthy storm. South, and seemingly further away, the block of Oxford Square buildings were dark above the first floors and more obscuring of what was happening. Only the neon medallions in Oxfords' dark windows fronting the street on the first floor were bold colors shining out in the darkness and through the shower that didn't show itself in that direction. They were red, blue, green and yellow in the Pub's black windows.
Oxfords' close sloping awnings above them had been painted a clinging white.
Across the way the black tree branches of Cornell Street arched together in a not quite gothic manner just before the bend that trends that street northward on an angle down a little more than half its length. House fronts on the south side of the street, those just beyond the bend, where there was a little yellow and indirect street light, filled full the arch like scenery seen through the proscenium of an old-time theater's stage, one deserted after the last act of some vaudeville.
A young couple was coming by Enrights.
He was complaining,
"I don't want to go there. I haven't any money."
"Why can't you just be quiet," she walked ahead saying.
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