Just opened my eyes. It’s eleven forty seven. The waking number. Tuesday is a long, lumbering train finally nearing the midnight depot, thirteen minutes from Wednesday.
Haven’t heard from you in days.
I guess you’re doing fine.
You’re in someone else’s arms.
A lovely brunette, a nurse with sleepy eyes, invited me to her place for a drink. Near the Baltimore harbor. We could go for a walk, she said.
No, thank you.
Some other time?
I rented a room for the night. Opened my tablet to write. Planned on spending the entire evening holding your invisible hand, tracing the harbor’s edge of our love on paper, a river of memories lapping sensuously and reflecting like colorful city lights on dark waters.
But your palm was cold and clammy. You rolled your eyes and pulled away.
So I crawled into bed and slept for hours, trying not to think about it.
I’m wide awake now, dammit. Empty eyes blinking at a red digital clock. Waiting for Wednesday. Another Wednesday. Dreadfully sober. Somewhere between everything and nothing.