All the letters I write to you I end up sending to myself, because out of the two of us I’m the only one who cares enough to care.

The bar maid says, “I hope you’re going out and having fun.”
To which I replied, “what?”
“I hope no one stood you up. You’re far too pretty for that.”
To which I lied, “oh, don’t worry. No one did. I’m going out after this.”

So now I’m at a bar. And being hit on by a stranger. Thinking about all the times you said you’d be there and weren’t. You’re a fucking asshole. And all the cracks at my surface are because of you. The wine blurs the edges of those memories, thankfully.

Sunday is the last game of the season, he told me.

“I never ask this question to myself, because it’s not possible to go back. I always think everything has sense. What’s happening now is the best it can happen, because it’s what’s happening.”