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after

bartender.

Ba-boom.

Ba-boom.

Then—

Andrew.

Right there.

Behind the bar.

And I hate?—

hate—

how fast my heart reacts.

How it’s fuckingracing.

He’s in a black button-up,

sleeves rolled up his forearms,

skinny black tie,

glasses, and his thick hair, styledfinger-fucked.

He's shaking a cocktail shaker,

talking to someone,

tossing a grin over his shoulder at a coworker.

As if I never happened, Allison Taylor just a commercial break in his life. Now he’s back to his regularly scheduled programming?—

no Allison, no heartbreak,

justLeon Bridgesand bourbon

and maybe slide through another bookstore tonight.

Dope.

So he’s fine.

He looks happy.

He's not gutted, or haunted,

or someone who spent a week wondering what could’ve been.

He’s moved on.

Meanwhile, I’m still scraping up pieces of myself scattered all over the city: The Astor lobby, Celie’s couch, my bathroom floor…