Zip.
Lipstick reapplied.
I’m already on the VantaCARd app,
calling a car before I’m out of the stall.
Black sedan. Blacked-out windows.
Mine in four minutes.
Then I’m sliding out.
I leave no trace of myself behind.
I don’t catch my reflection on my way out.
Because I’m fine.
When the door swings open, Andrew’s there,
leaning against the wall, waiting for me,
hands in his pockets, jaw set.
As if he saw the whole thing through the goddamn walls.
I keep walking, my thighs trembling.
But he steps in close, blocking me.
“Don’t gotta pull that lone-wolf shit on me, aight?”
Then his hand drops between us near mine,
a small brush of his knuckle across my palm.
The car’s too quiet.
I told Andrew he wasn’t coming up to my floor.
He didn’t argue,
insisting he only wanted to see me home.
Now he’s on the other side of the sedan?—
city rushing past,
headlights strobing through the dark?—
but I’ve never felt further from him.
His jaw keeps clenching, biting back words,
as if the tinted glass is pissing him off and the leather’s too comfortable.
He didn’t want the car,
