guessing by the fact I’m not still in it.
But I don’t remember when.
Or how.
Or if I said goodbye.
I don’t remember the elevator.
Or pressing the button.
Or what the rent-a-cop looked like,
only that he nodded
as if I wasn’t dying right in front of him.
Nice of him to pretend.
Wish I could.
I don’t remember how my keys ended up in my hand.
Maybe I dug for them at some point.
Or they jumped into my palm out of pity.
But before I slide into the driver seat,
the bile hits my throat.
I leave the car door hung open,
turn,
and fold in half.
Vomit shakes out of me,
splashing the concrete wall of the parking garage.
My eyes burn,
my hands shake,
my knees are barely holding my legs together.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand,
slide into the car,
and throw my head back, the seat catching me.
Parking space number 4 blurs on the wall in front of me.
My brain's blank, my breathing all jacked up.
Then as soon as my next inhale fully fills my lung,
