26 02 2006


She began to panic. This situation was falling out of her control. She was losing ground and a few hours ago she lost her composure. He was supposed to be drunk; she was supposed to have faked it. The walls closed in on them. She felt as though she could slip away into the melting crowds surrounding them. “It would be weak,” she worried. “He has to know,” she stumbled. His eyes focused more tightly on her. “What is it”, he damn near shouted. “What, what’s what.”

“This is over.” No one was sure exactly who said it or even if someone had ever said it at all. Years later, they reminisced over this scene while sipping coffee. She was too smart for him, maybe. She recalled looking at his plaid shirt. She remembered pointing at it, saying “that, that right there is what’s what”. She knew how torn he was, how confused she played him, and how grateful she was for it. “It was art”, she said out loud. She had toyed with his emotions and he deserved it. No man should be so easy. She laughed. He was easy. He was only a game back then.

He kept quiet. The train passed outside. He tried to distract himself. He was not familiar with this sickening feeling; it had only passed through him one or two times before. Two small children wearing oversized college sweatshirts passed by crying; something was wrong with them. He wanted to go find out. She noticed them too. She almost began to cry. Knowing that her teary-eyed face was only a ruse to manipulate him, he spoke up, “I’m going to go. I guess we’ll just see each other later.” She saw him walk out the door. Her head collapsed hard onto the table. Hours later, she looked up, eyes red, to see him outside the window, looking in at the coffee shop. Mouthing an “I am sorry”, she closed her eyes again, praying she would see him again someday.



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