And he's sitting there with?—
Two coffees.
I freeze.
Two?
Not one. Two.
And my brain blanks,
unable to remember how to think or swallow.
My stomach turns inside out.
He’s with someone.
Because why the fuck wouldn’t he be?
I was the one who left.
I’m the one who always leaves.
And now I’m the one standing outside,
cold, cracked, nauseous.
I slip the pack of cigs out of my coat pocket and light another one.
I should’ve stayed home.
When I exhale, my breath is shaky.
My throat closes up.
My eyes burn.
He goes blurry.
I blink again?—
once, twice?—
shaking the tear from my eye.
It's watering because of the cold.
The wind.
The smoke.
Not because of whatever the hell is happening in my chest.
I press my thumb under my eye as if I’m fixing mascara,
refusing to let anything fall from my lashes.
In the distance,
