By: Laura K.
The sky is marginally lighter than the slush walling the streets. The air stings my nostrils. It’s a relief after yesterday, too many people and stories squeezed into that house; nineties Christmas albums; cookies and champagne at noon, wrapping paper and packaging everywhere.
He’s divorced, now, no kids. I made it here okay, not even skidding around Dead Man’s Curve, to his East Side walkup with a young lawyer couple below.
It’s better than after-Christmas sale shopping would have been.
Afterwards, we’ll attempt small talk. I’ll blast The Cure on the way home, just like before our lives stopped intersecting.