Or, if not watching, aware of being watched.

Or maybe only I was.

Told editor bae about the mixtape I’d just dropped with V.

She told me what she’d been listening to.

Impressed me by citing Smino.

My salted caramel was perfect: not too sweet nor salty.

We sampled each other’s.

When we finished our gelatos, we roamed, in search of more food.

I started out confident, proposing places we passed, till I started seeing the prices.

Not cut out for dating in the city, on my courier salary.

Courier ‘salary.’

But it was all good; she said she didn’t mind.

At a diagonal intersection, I removed my unbuttoned button-up.

Dangled it from the backpack strap.

Underneath was my Gal Pal Softball League cutoff tank.

Guns out.

Flexing.

She acted unaware but noticed, I noted.

I asked her what drugs she did, considered telling her which I was on.

Adderall and weed.

Occasionally both.

I told her I’d dabbled when she asked whether I’d ever tried that combo.

By the time we made it to the vegan burger spot in the East Village, on her rec, we were hangry.

She looked exhausted.

It ended up no cheaper than the fancy spots we’d passed up on.

Finally mentioning editor bae to ex bae was the nail.

The straw.

The spine-cracker—all ’at.

What unleashed the rage.

The desire, on ex bae’s part, to break me.

What was craziest was I coulda sworn I’d told her.

This was early spring, when things were still salvageable.

When ex bae only humoring women.

Me microdosed and in my feelings.

Coming through like “A woman. Really. Who.”

Ex bae being like “Bae, it’s a phase. A curiosity. Just sit tight. We’re obviously gonna end up together. Just can’t trust you rn,” here referencing side bae.

How I’d told her side bae and I had made out during mine and ex bae’s ‘break,’ weeks after this past shitshow New Year’s.

“Ah,” I’d said, flagrantly clueless. “That seems to be the trend.”

“What does.”

“Women not trusting me.”

I’d told her I’d gone and visited editor bae. That editor bae had agreed to edit my book.

“Why doesn’t she trust you?”

“I mean. You know.”

“…”

“Bc what happened. Back at school. But you already know about that.”

She hadn’t known about that.

How she cried that day was different. Not resigned, like before, but furious.

Fury-like.

Tears not focal, but witnesses to the rage.

Accessories to the primary thing.

She squinted her eyes, compressed her body, and lashed out.

Like FUCK you, bro.

Disgusted.

Before hitting the burger joint, editor bae and I pit-stopped at a coffee shop.

To recoup. Revaluate our plan.

And to re-up, literally, for me.

I’d started rolling the night before, around 9 p.m.

Hadn’t particularly wanted to, but had this thing about having uningested drugs on deck.