Empty apartment, empty days, long drives. Bright sun on my windshield. The smell of chlorine in an empty pool. The rush of a speeding longboard, the thrill and the terror of going too fast.
The asphalt reaches up and tries to catch me, but it can’t hold on. Its rough embrace leaves my knees and elbows gritty and red.
I limp back to my empty apartment. The hot sun beats down: get home, get home, get home. My skin screams under hot water.
I text him; he worries. He brings me chocolate ice cream late at night, and we eat it in bed.
When his grandma calls, he says he’ll be home soon. He doesn’t mean to lie, but I don’t think he believes it. He knows as well as I do that he won’t leave my bed until morning.