But she’s not listening.
Her heart's pounding through the earpiece.
Not literally,
but figuratively enough to want to sedate her.
I’ve seen this look before.
It’s the same one she had right before she proposed to a bartender in Vegas. She’s seconds away from throwing herself at him.
The pigeon closes in, slow and smug.
He turns his beady little head away,
as if I’m beneath him now.
I ignore him back, type into Google:
what to say to your ex to win him back.
The results populate instantly.
I skim until I find something low-risk and idiot-proof. “Tell him your just checking in on him. Ask about his weekend.”
But dead silence.
She’s staring,
her eyes wide and expression blank.
Shit.
She’s so fucking high.
Higher than gas prices in Manhattan.
“Hoodrat!” I hiss.
“Tuck your hair behind your ear if you know where you are.”
A second passes.
Then she lets out this weird, glitchy-ass giggle.
Okay wi-fi's back.
“Ask about his weekend,”
I say again through gritted teeth.
She clears her throat,
diving headfirst into monotone.
“So. How was your weekend?
“Did you do anything enjoyable?”
