Davin
By seven o’clock, I’d reorganized the same set of brushes so many times that even I had lost track. The flat brushes stood in one jar, and the round brushes were in another.
I switched them once, and then I switched them again shortly after.
The ritual had nothing to do with organization. It simply gave my hands something to do while my mind insisted on imagining every possible version of the evening ahead, and none of them ended well.
In one, Jasmine walked in, thanked me for the opportunity, accepted the final payment, and told me she was done. In another, she never came at all. I’d spend the evening listening for footsteps that never reached the landing, staring at a door that remained stubbornly closed until I finally admitted to myself that I’d lost her.
There were darker v
