"what do you mean, she's gone?"
It's raining, fucking hard, and I'm somewhere between E and Independence, without an umbrella like an idiot, scowling at everyone I pass.
I light a cigarette, a self-rolled mix of cloves and bourbon-flavored rolling tobacco. It tastes like Amy.
"m i fuckin a, man, no one's seen her for months"
Walking fast, I'm shielding my phone from the rain, Thom Yorke blasts in my ears, Kid A, I think, but then I’m not really listening to it. I scroll through her statuses, only now noticing their ambiguity, void of locations, reminders to the world of her unobtainable but definite presence.
I drag from the cigarette as hard as I can, exhale a large cloud, half smoke and half vapor, the air is bitter cold. I toss the butt aside before I head down into the station, the sound of wet shoes squeaking fills the underground enclosure. Jesse's text comes in after I board the train, I read it just as I lose service.
"oh, man. you should probably go see him for yourself. it's... not good."
There's a woman three rows up, she's reading a book, I can't see what it is, her purse is in the way, but she's reading it, and she laughs. Her eyes move upwards a few lines, she reads the same passage again, and she laughs. I look around the train and want to vomit back at these ugly interiors, mustard, puce, sienna, but instead I hold it in for six stations, exit, walk up the escalator, and expel those very colors all over King Street.