My stomach drops so fast
it almost takes my heart down with it.
There’s no bar or jazz club at the Astor.
They don't have a rooftop café
with string lights and cocktails.
It’s a building. Where people stay.
For the night. Or hour.
Some to fuck, clean up,
go back to their busy schedules.
My heart flips upside down and starts strangling itself.
I shoot him a double-edged look.
One razor-sharp to cut, but full of fear.
He’s busy sliding out his wallet from his pocket.
He brought me here to fuck me,
to undress me,
to take something I don’t give
unless I’m punishing myself.
His eyes find mine,
and the second he sees the look on my face,
it’s as if I slapped him.
His whole expression cracks,
as if I ripped the good out of his hands
before he had a chance to give it.
He passes folded bills to Eddie,
pockets his wallet,
and opens the door,
cold November air whipping across my cheeks.
I should run.
I should drop brutal words to put him back in his place.
He reaches for my hand.
