Molly

We stumbled out of the bar of sawdust floors, perhaps it was still early evening, but the sky was dark and the air unusually cold. I walked five steps south and fell into tears at the light, I didn't care that the girl saw me. This is the last time we come to this bar, he said, and when the bartender asked us to justify our Budweiser request, we had the only acceptable response: This is the routine. This is the last time we'll do this. The future is bright, in all directions. One day, this will all be but a memory.

I'm too drunk for proper words, but perhaps there were none proper enough to begin with. Third avenue lies reassuringly still as I weave through the slow Murray Hill currents, making their way home. The East Village is warm, I take a fuzzy picture of the fish restaurant's neon sign before they close up shop for good. Everything changes.

Imagine a life without his name in your inbox, without his seat next to you at the bar. Lean against the city. Let it take deep breaths with you in it. It is bigger than you. You are insignificant in comparison.

It's a comforting truth. The city moves on, whether you follow or not.

But it will not forget you, entirely.