your socks

February 11, 2016 Posted by the writer

The last night I saw you was the only night my dog ever pissed on my floor. She did it while you were here doing drugs in my bathroom that were delivered by my dealer in a silver BMW about twenty minutes ago.

These are things that happen in Manhattan.

I’ve known you for almost two years now and you have begged and pleaded and played on the weakness my divorce cut me with and broke both of my knees.

I’ve given you a lot. Too much. Things I will never get back. Things you will never deserve. But if you ever thought I would give you the number of my delivery service – you played yourself.

My weed dealer, Victor, is Dominican. He has wide shoulders and a trusting smile and I would lie under oath for him in a heartbeat. I might have to too, because this is the United States of America, a police state. Civilians lost rights here years ago.

I can’t wait to go back to Australia.

I would do anything for Victor. Outside of my parents and sister, there is a barely visible circle of alliances I hold dear and closer than anything. You were never part of it, and you never will be.

When you fall out of my bathroom door I reach for your shoes, beside my doorway. I don’t think you want them, and we know you want to stay. But that’s far in the past now.

So I open the door, while you’re still standing there in your socks.

About the writer

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gretchen's brain is preoccupied with words.

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