Party

She always leaves the party early. They don't ask why anymore, they just wait for the call.

"I’m at the other side of town..." She fumbles through old mail on the counter to find an address. She is always looking through other people’s mail.

It's not a game anymore, when you're scoring hundreds. It's not a funny story to share at Sunday brunch, crying into your soda because you can't hold anything down.

She used to laugh at her winnings and share her mantra. Now she just chokes on her tears, says she wants to lay down in the street and die. "Next time... don't let me leave. Next time, remind me of this moment, so I will remember how it feels to have your insides sucked out and spat back in your face."

"Pinky swear."

You will never stop promising, but you promise yourself you will stop answering her calls. There are only so many times you can hear it.

She will find her way home eventually; she will make her way back.

You're waiting to hear that catch in her voice that tells you she's ready.

You can't swallow defeat, it lingers in your mouth, a bitter aftertaste, like the torn lace of her dress, as she buys you lunch with coins from false prophets who promised to show her god.