She traded her CD for his book just as she had done for
mine, his book on her bed where mine had been last time, a little night reading,
she told me when I asked, she then asking more about him, claiming from what
she read of his book, “He’s really fucked up when comes to women,” with me staying
deathly silent, a tug of war going on in my chest, the green-eyed monster
stirring as I wondered what she had planned next, for him, for me, a sense of
doom hanging over the room, a kind of vacancy as if she was moving me out of
her heart, packing my possessions near the door for me to take with me as I
leave, not physical things, just those things I thought we had in common, an
eviction notice sitting on the bed with a book mark showing just how far she’d
read.
Would she read to the end the way she had with me or put the
book down and pick up mine again?
“Tell me more about him,” she said, giving me my answer.
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