The nights grow dark much earlier now, you feel winter creep quickly, so quickly into your veins. She says she loves November, and you can't begin to imagine what that would feel like. Every cool breeze around the avenue corner stops your heart for just a split second, so short no one would see it on your face but it takes you several blocks to recover.
At the bar, your drinks melt abandoned, even as the evening is young. Twenty years of tangled messes rear their ugly heads in just one question. You were not meant for family, he says. Everyone seems to know you better than you do.
A young psychic on Broadway locks her eyes on me, begins to babble wildly. I see it. I see you. You've been very confused. This is life, I tell her. We're all confused. It begins to rain again.
You'll be sorry when I'm gone.
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