We broke up.

Is there anything else to say?

When you've said it (whatever "it" is. however you phrase the rippingtearingthing. the bad thought you don't want to say but lurks and stings anyway) and the words hang in the air and glow redandjaggedspiky. They hurt when they finally touch your skin, in the smoothest places. Resting on the white backs of your knees, the tips of your elbows, the creases of your eyelids. They hurt when they sink in, and you realize that tomorrow you're a differentperson. You can't say, "ohyesthat'smyboyfriend. he'smybestfriend." because half of that isn't true any more, and it's been split down the center so neatly. And even the second part (used to be so steadyandcertain) starts to erode and crumble.

The face on the screen isn't your boyfriend any more, and the air brushes your skin and fills the space where he used to be.

Tales from the Train

Imagine:

A skinny white girl, hair in a severe pony tail, purse awkwardly thumping in time to her heart against her side. She watches too closely for pickpockets.

She sees:

A broad man, tattoos peeking out from a stained white tank top along with matted chest hairs.

Moving quickly:

He takes the seat next to her, shifting his bulk on the hard yellow-and-white plastic.

She starts:

The girl's tiny frozen smile, fast flushing cheeks, her nervous darting eyes. The lashes flutter with too much mascara.

He notices and:

A slow warm grin coming over his now-friendly face. A half-melted crayon of a smile, or brownies that burn fresh out of the oven (but taste so much better that way).

He watches:

As I (palegirltoomuchmakeuppretentiousnovel) smile back.