Page 496 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

I keep walking toward Rockefeller Center, teeth chattering, eyes burning, boots clipping sidewalk, hand shoved in my pocket around my phone, 911 one tap away.

‘Cause I’m not stupid. (Says the girl walking through Midtown alone at midnight while her stalker’s out of prison.)

So...

Stupid-adjacent.

The tree rises ahead,

standing over the plaza,

branches drowning in lights.

Below it, the ice rink cuts a cold pale hole into the city, skaters circling under the gold statue, falling on their asses, laughing, kissing with hot chocolate breath.

I don’t think about who I should be thinking about.

I don’t think about Andrew.

I think about Little Death.

Tiny little bastard.

A four-point-five-inch penis-shaped devil with horns and three grabby little fingers on his pitchfork.

Waiting at the edge of the ice, like⁠—

Look at all these people holding hands.

Disgusting. You should touch yourself.

I walked away from the compulsion ten hours ago, and I stand here, still feeling…

unended.

Not giving in to the urge,

it feels like an unclenched fist.

Like leaving a gate wide open,

and nothing walking through.

Like stepping off a treadmill after a sprint.

Like stopping CPR,

stepping back from the body,

waiting to see if it’ll take a breath.

Buzz.

Today 12:13 AM

Andrew

Get dressed and come down