I told myself this had to be a mix up. I told myself I would not cry. I tried to make myself believe it.
Outside, the night was alive with traffic, blaring horns, laughter, and conversation as Saturday night revelers made their way from one bar or club to the next.
I had never felt more excluded.
I had never felt number.
I looked up and saw your smoldering gaze looking down at me: the poster for your band and that night’s performance. I glanced around quickly, making sure I wasn’t observed, and ripped it from the wall.
I headed home to Ballard, hailing a cab and damning the cost. I deserved it.
* * * *
I wish I could say that was the end of our story. I now know that, for you, our story ended the night it began: more of a haiku than an epic. But for me, our story ends here, with my taking a not-so-graceful plunge from a bridge to splatter on the concrete below.