idling in front of his house,
telling myself there’s no turning back.
(That’s bullshit. I haven’t even turned the car off.)
I had no idea what to expect,
but a brown house with peeling white trim and a slouched stoop wasn’t it.
Lawn’s got more weeds than grass,
where a ceramic dog is missing a leg.
And a garden gnome? Straight-up haunted.
The whole place is worn
but alive in the bones.
A house that creaks when it breathes,
but won’t collapse on you,
held together by memories
and arguments you only have with people
you don’t want to lose.
It feels like Andrew.
I circle the street—twice?—
then end up nosing the Benz into a makeshift spot.
Welcome to Union City. Park at your own risk.
My palms are clammy.
Heat’s blasting, but it doesn’t reach my legs.
My knees are stiff,
my boot's pressing the brake to the floor.
I kill the engine,
lean back into the leather,
and lose my shit in complete silence.
I didn’t text or call.
I’m showing up like the completely sane, well-adjusted adult I am.
As if I didn’t tell him I didn’t want him,
walk out with another guy,
