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Everybody's leaving; you are not used to being the one left behind. Spend your days explaining to the little child why the boxes are building mountains in his apartment, why the cupboards are emptying out. He asks if you will come with him to California, but you will not. Nights are spent drunk on the stoop, rehashing the years of New York that you shared, the ones you did not. We'll give it a year, she says, we can always come back. You know these last deals with the devil are part of the dance. They leave you their typewriter and you refuse to understand it is over.

Still, every airplane that rolls across the Brooklyn sky reminds you that it is almost time to travel. That you get all the perks of roaming airports, of being in transit, of sating your relentless need to go, without all the heartache that comes with leaving. This luxury is not lost on you.

The moving dust settles on your sticky skin. We laugh, but it is sad as hell.