I could still taste you on my lips; it didn’t matter how much scotch I used to try and burn it away, and trust me, I’d been using a lot. I wondered about the night before last, and whether or not it counts as cheating if the whore leaves before you can pay her.

She didn’t care for some of my particular thrills, but then again, sometimes I don’t, either.

So then I wound up in the rain, because none of the damned cabs would stop, and I walked something like a hundred thousand blocks in no particular direction, tracing sigils over New York City with my footsteps. I said your name every time I crossed my own path and stopped in every bar to light a cigarette and down a shot, as if you’d walk out of the smoke from my lips or the last drops on my tongue.

It was the kind of spell that would take days to complete — even if I’d been some kind of magician, I don’t know as I could pull something like that off. Fuck, I wouldn’t have even been sure I did, except you’re here now, right?


About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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