The street was empty at this hour, hollow and ill-lit, a straight shot south which, I hoped, would deposit me at its terminus along Rhode Island and M Street, eliminating at least a portion of my journey to the Farragut West Metro Station. I am not in the habit of listening to music or podcasts or anything requiring earphones when walking alone in the darkness, unwilling to remain oblivious to the sounds around me, the hum, hiss and growl of the streets, warning me of danger or opportunity. Instead, I moved along in my own form of silence, my eyes reaching into the depths of the dimness, seeking motion or sign of company that I would prefer to do without.

St. Matthews loomed like a Romanesque toad, squat and malicious on the left, its dome above adding menace to its grim facade as it eyed me in my passage. I tried to pay it little heed, quickening my pace as I advanced along its length, but before completing my race to the main avenues ahead and putting this gantlet behind me, I froze in my tracks. Perhaps I saw her already and yet my brain chose to tell me otherwise in the hopes that I would keep moving and thereby preserve myself from possible trouble. Or possibly she had not been there and only now stepped from the shadows. Whatever the truth, she was there, behind me, half a block back, in the middle of the alley, alone, unmoving. It was the same strange woman I had seen before at Tapeo, of this I was sure despite the darkness. The reptilian part of my mind told me this, assured me of this, and whispered this to me with an almost sadistic delight. I turned slowly and still she did not move, garbed in black, tall boots below the hem of her coat, her hair spilling down as ink spills, saturating her and completing her striking pose. She stood, gazing through the gloom in a way that unsettled me and yet stoked some inner flame that could as easily destroy as it could ignite and create. Neither of us spoke or moved. Finally, I took a step, very slowly, in her direction. With that, she turned and walked away opposite me, up St. Matthews Court and towards the origin of my travels. I chose not to follow, not wary of a trap, but simply because it did not feel right, not now, not yet. That was not the night for us to meet.

I forgot the wind as I moved on autopilot to the Metro station and rode home, her silhouette the only thing I could see in my mind's eye. I would see her again, I knew. When the time is right. The next time I take a shortcut, perhaps.