And Metro was wet from the discharged knives. He stopped treading the ground. He swayed back like wood in water, his eyes stiff on the open zippers. The leader of them grinning, his mouth a crater spilling beer, said, “Now.”

“Why did you call me?” Rooms asked.

I said nothing.

“You think I’m gay, too?”

“No,” I said.

“You really loved him,” said Rooms.

“Yes.”

“That makes all the difference.” She held me with her eyes. They cut into me. “There’s something else, isn’t there? Something you haven’t told me.”

I tasted blood in my mouth. My head felt hot.

“I can wait,” she said.

I went to her window and looked out. A subway rumbled underground, then it was quiet. The lump high in my throat, about to spread all through me since yesterday, eased down for a moment. I went back to my apartment to get the rest of my things.

Ruella

Ruella

Now how many times have I told myself, “Ruella, girl, you really messed up.” And how many times will I say it over and over again. I’d gotten the words right, the perfect lines to my one-woman show. The same lines, the same action, and yet, there I went falling for someone impossible and beautiful and already attached. You’d have thought I would have learned my lesson. Men. I was not to blame, really. Well, not for all that happened. Not for the despair in it or the desperation. I should have known better. I’d been miserable before. But that time, that one time I thought I could heal fast. My scars usually don’t show, except for the tiny keloid behind my pierced ear. But that doesn’t mean I don’t remember losing anything. You can hurt on the inside without anybody knowing a thing. So what had I gotten myself into this time?