The Way Things Ended

“Call me, Elliot.”

That’s all she said in her message. Three words. Three years of my life, wasted on someone who didn’t even have the decency to apologize. I wanted to scream.

The windows go dark as the A train rattles through the catacomb tunnels of the New York City subway system. It would be the perfect place to scream, catacombs. The only people you might disturb would be dust beneath your feet. I couldn’t scream in a subway car, obviously. That would cause a scene; and I’m not one to cause a scene.

Instead, I grind my teeth until my head hurts, loudly and hard enough so that the old man sitting next to me can probably hear it over his mouth-breathing. It smells like urine and missed opportunities. Someone’s alarm goes off. The woman across from me shuffles her uncreased sneakers to rap music blasting from her headphones. A toddler stares at me from the end of the car, like he can see into me – the blood and the marrow. Light filters in through the windows and the harsh glow of fluorescent subway lights hurts my eyes, making my mouth taste like I just bit my tongue.

The doors hiss open, and I file out with the rest of the downcast eyes and pulled-tight coats. The air in the subway station is thick. It smells like cigarette smoke and tar. I yank the cuffs of my coat down my wrists and push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, strolling up the stairs, the crisp fall air flooding my lungs. I breathe in the familiar air of Tribeca and begin my trek home, dragging my suitcase behind me.

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