Hitchcock

I remember reading a short story by Hitchcock. Three friends walk and converse as they make their trek home from work. Huddled in mind, independently fearless, the cold air or hot night baring their souls. crows on line watching remembering silhouettes - chalk line to be drawn Three, two, one - for one must eventually walk alone. Walking the line, confident, aware of every shadow, lurking, stillness jumps out. Hesperus midnight moon scantily clothed in shroud clicking of high heels Let go the chain, the arm-in-arm armor. Pallor of countenance as pinking blush of rush hour fades into dusk. You can almost see fingertips reaching out, moving away. vertiginous spin heightened intensity fights thundering heartbeats One, why her? All alone. Path is familiar and unknown. She spots someone near her residence. She runs like a stallion. Her horseshoes clip clopping on cobblestone. Key shaking, cranking, releasing. Safe. Safe in a prison, of sorts. Safe, wrapped in her place of warmth. the rocking chair creeks only for a little while - shower curtain shrieks Each lady found a friendly front door and the backside; that closed out the cold or was it warm air? The third lady, warming her tea, hears the clearing of a throat behind her… the stories complete but my imagination runs away with me Now, I’ve told this tense tale, as I remember it. Three, two, one, the ladies parted ways. Two will meet again, but the last one, ripped from the pages of time, lingers. suspension of peace - invalid looks through window placed there by Hitchcock