Gunshot wounds

It didn't work. "Meet us at Alcove" Chloe said when I called her, and there they were: her head leaning softly on his chest, his left arm wrapped close around that 24 inch waist of hers, girly porcelain hand in ruggedly masculine hand. It felt like watching Dior's first post-Galliano haute couture collection, something inside me just wanted to collapse right there on the pavement to be flushed down the drain into the sewers.

I had to go somewhere else, anywhere else. Carl called me twenty minutes later. "What the hell is wrong with you" he said, evidently annoyed. I screamed at him, something about not wanting to ruin a perfectly good illusion of a dream that may or may not be coming true sometime in the future. I don't think he understood.

Back home I asked mother if I could go with her to New York, she laughed before she realized I was serious. I need to get away from this city for a while, away from this plastic surface I keep scratching without ever finding anything underneath.

I'm not angry, just tired.