Live From New York

“I live in _____, #5A. I’m about to go to sleep and turn my phone off. I’m not sure where u r, but I’m sure ur safe.”

This was sent to me at 5:39 AM.

She left me.

Alone.

Far from my city.

In the rain.

Sky-bled tears meshing with my flesh, I walked on sore toes wrapped in soft black leather Aldo pumps. My toes, squishy from the down pour, continued to suffer as I walked back towards her apartment, her legs speedily carrying her far ahead of me. There is a breeze with the rain. The clinging black sweater-turned dress did little to insulate me from the cold. My semi-sheer leggings helped none.

Her building is locked. The only way I can enter is with a key.

The key she has with her.

While she sleeps.

With her phone off.

Later, after police were called and alternative plans made, her explanation was, “You told me you knew where you were going.”

Absurd.

She proves that chivalry is dead. She left this lady alone at 5:39 AM scantily clad in seductive garments. Somehow, she feels she did no wrong. She doesn’t recognize how she put my life and my vagina in danger. She is dead to me.


Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe I said something to warrant her wrath. Most likely, my lack of attention to her needs and insecurities pissed her off. (On the train, she told me that me not wanting to dance with her made her self-conscious. I never dance with her. Or anyone. I dance to give myself a show. Onlookers welcome. I am not her personal ego boost.) There is no love or humanism. Nor friendship. Nor acquaintanceship.

She wanted to hurt me because of the many times I hurt her. That much is apparent. Unfortunately for her, her actions only forced my respect for her to be replaced by indifference to her existence. Because, at the end of the day, she left me. The story doesn’t matter because what she said at 5:39 AM proves that she didn’t care what happened to me. Death. Rape. Anything.

She will tell her version of the evening. The scorpion manipulator. I abhor Scorpios.

“This is why we could never work.” She spits it at me as if I asked. Or cared. Or didn’t already know. She is like my bitter cold , angry that she can’t tame me. A disgusting realization of my ability to consistently make bad decisions.

New York was awesome in spite of her treachery. Where’s that camera that should follow me around? My ratings would have been sky high this weekend.