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My stomach drops so fast

it almost takes my heart down with it.

There’s no bar or jazz club at the Astor.

They don't have a rooftop café

with string lights and cocktails.

It’s a building. Where people stay.

For the night. Or hour.

Some to fuck, clean up,

go back to their busy schedules.

My heart flips upside down and starts strangling itself.

I shoot him a double-edged look.

One razor-sharp to cut, but full of fear.

He’s busy sliding out his wallet from his pocket.

He brought me here to fuck me,

to undress me,

to take something I don’t give

unless I’m punishing myself.

His eyes find mine,

and the second he sees the look on my face,

it’s as if I slapped him.

His whole expression cracks,

as if I ripped the good out of his hands

before he had a chance to give it.

He passes folded bills to Eddie,

pockets his wallet,

and opens the door,

cold November air whipping across my cheeks.

I should run.

I should drop brutal words to put him back in his place.

He reaches for my hand.