I realized I was drunk. I let my brain swish around, the bright blue plastic of the bus seat in front of me bleeding out in hazy streaks. Who cared about Jojo? Who cared about Sam? You don’t give a shit what I want. I took out the crumpled napkin, unfurled it. It was already fringing, but his words were still legible: Come back. Come back. Come back. I could go live with the bartender, never see Jojo or Sam again, or anyone I’d ever known. I felt certain he’d gone back to Pilz Bar after he’d left Celeste’s—that he was holding down the space, solid and stable. Waiting and ready. I felt my body swaying of its own accord, and I liked this, as though I were dancing. My legs splayed open and this felt good, too. I was a young woman, alive and free, giving my vagina some air. There was a man in front of me, dozing with his head against the window, seeming to have just gotten off work and to be at the beginning of a long journey home. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the window as well, but this was too swishy, the bumping of the bus along the road made me feel ill. When I opened my eyes I was nauseated and wretched again.

My mind went to my parents, whom I would only partially placate with my arrival; they would be angry I was late, they would be angry I hadn’t let them know—if they weren’t angry with me for what I’d done. I thought about Langham, who may or may not be there still. I didn’t know what I hoped. It didn’t matter, anyway, my hopes held no currency. I looked out the window as we rode through Central Park, trying to make out the trees in the darkness, to focus so hard I couldn’t think anything else. But the trees were a blur.

When we exited the park, a mother stepped onto the bus, holding her baby and dragging her toddler daughter, who was wailing, by the hand. She sat the toddler down and sank next to her, looking only at the baby. The harder her toddler cried, the more her mother ignored her. She cooed at the baby, she stroked the baby’s cheek, she looked out the window, away from her tortured child. For a long time I stared at the toddler, willing her to look at me, so I could offer her some company. But she only wanted her mother. Wail: Mommy. Wail: Mommy. Mommy looked away, resolute. Mommy would not help her. There was so much pain in New York you could vomit.

As I walked up Park Avenue toward my parents’ building, I felt forlorn. The balls of my feet had supported my weight all night and had now had enough; the ankles had been rubbed raw underneath the protruding bones. My jacket was open, the cold air climbing up underneath my shirt, trying to wash the drunkenness away.