I reach for toner,
reach for a towel,
reach for anything but the damn phone,
still side-eying it every two seconds,
hearing phantom buzzing.
But then it does.
The screen lights up.
I snatch it off the marble.
Today, 4:03 am
Andrew:
Come downstairs.
Downstairs?
Shut the fuck up.
I stare at the text
like it’s breathing against my palm.
It’s four o’clock in the morning.
Am I still drunk?
Is this a dream?
My hand lowers, the towel slipping from my fingers.
My heart does that thing again?—
beats like she’s slipping into her UGGs,
throwing the door open,
feet pounding bone
as she takes off running for him.
He didn’t say‘Me too.’
He didn’t say‘I wish I could.’
Just…‘Come downstairs.’
After working all night.
After thirty minutes across the river.
After me saying I needed time and space to think.
