I release the phone,
my hand backing away from the pocket.
I left Andrew less than eight hours ago.
Now he’s got the universe in on his plan,
shoving him in my face, playing our band,
making me crack first.
He sold his soul just to stay on my mind.
I said I needed time—not signs.
And I almost fucking fell for it too.
“Nice try, Universe.
“You manipulative little shit.”
Gonna have to try harder than that.
I pivot toward Duane,
and the second I do,
an MTA bus slams a pothole.
Filthy street water arcs through the air
and slaps across my face.
I freeze, shutting my eyes,
pressing my lips as it slides down my neck,
tasting city grit on my tongue.
When I open them, it’s dripping from me.
From lashes. Chin. Fingertips.
I nod, calm, accepting it.
“Okay. Message received.”
A few minutes later,
I limp into Duane Reade like I’ve been shot.
“Good mornin’,” a guy chirps in passing.
No one says good morning unless they’re a tourist.
I grunt, not breaking stride,
tunnel-vision locked on the candy aisle.
