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Type No. 45 stamped across the window,
proud of what it did to me.
I look both ways before crossing the street.
And then?—
Andrew.
“Oh, shit.”
He’s there.
In the window.
He’s fucking there.
In the fucking window.
I flinch so hard, I stumble across flat concrete,
almost twisting my ankle.
I glance around, checking if anyone saw.
Then—
no time to care.
I need to take cover?—
Where do I go?—
There.
I dart sideways into a shadowed entryway,
heartbeat stuffed in my ears,
hands shaking,
a wildfire burning across my skin.
Don’t look.
Don’t look.
Don’t—
I look.
And there he is,
at the table in the corner
witheverything.
His mouth. Hands. Ears. Hair. Legs. Elbows.
