From the window next to this café table, the sky looks heavy with unfallen rain.
FI pick at the torn edge of the menu as I wait for Michael to show up. He texted me that he’ll be a few minutes late, so I probably should have taken my time coming here. I could have taken the scenic route from Bianca’s apartment by the pond . . . no. I would just see the ducks and think about the girls. And him. And I desperately don’t want to think about him.
no. And him. I don’t want to think about how Dominic’s eyes light up when he looks at me, or his laugh when his girls do something silly, or the way he squeezes me tight against his chest when we’re tangled in his bed. I especially don’t want to think about my last memory of him: the cold silhouette of his back against the TV newscast that froze out
