Kimbra
The last three days have been hell—or what I imagine that to be.
I've hardly slept or closed my eyes. Every time I do, I see him, think of him, think of me, and think of us. The imaginings have changed, becoming more detailed. Since my conversation with Shana, they now include giant Italian pastries and usually end with us covered in sweet cream and chocolate glaze.
And then I remember the most important part. There is no us.
It's pretend.
Each daydream or night session that may or may not include self-gratification leaves me woefully unsatisfied with an undeniable desire to take the subway to Little Italy and visit the quaint bakery on Mulberry Street.
While cannoli in the city are real, I remind myself that the deal for a plus-one with Duncan is not. That train of thoug
