The one who cracked me open,
poured hope in,
then walked off tothink about it.
I shove the thought away as the limo glides through Midtown. Outside, Manhattan blurs across the glass in headlights, in gold and red neon—urban watercolor.
Beside me,
Ben’s leaned against the window,
glancing over.
“Why you so quiet all’a sudden?” he says.
Blond hair slicked. Armani suit hugging every muscle that cost him four hours a day. A perfectly shaven jaw, stubble casting shadows that make women melt.
He’s a GQ cover with two hammers for fists.
I fix my dress?—
black satin,
backless,
cuts down the middle,
cuts down the sides of my breasts,
a slit high enough to be dangerous.
“I’m fine.”
It’s my trademark. And total bullshit.
I turn back to the window.
I should’ve brought Celie.
At least then I’d be laughing.
Not sitting here counting my own fucking inhales.
The limo rolls to a stop.
When the door swings open,
the world lunges in, slamming into me.
Flashing lights.
Gossip blogs circling.
Paps shouting names.
Ben climbs out first,
perfect posture, perfect face.
