The Chrome Phase

"So?" "Got the McLaren. It's at the warehouse." "I don't care about the car. The ring is worth twice as much." "There's a little problem. It's still on his finger." "No you didn't..." "Had to." "Where did you put him?" "East River."

I want to sing something from "Phantom", but Maggie told me not to because that's what everyone else is doing.  It doesn't matter. I won't get the lead. I just want to get in so I can be in the dance scene.

It had been years, but with one sip I tasted everything. Marlboro Lights mixed with bonfire smoke. Roasted marshmallows. Horseshoes in fresh cut grass. Crickets chirping before a late storm. And the salty taste of his lips. The summer I'll always remember.

"It's been down to here," he gestured to his fourth shirt button.  "But a couple years ago I trimmed it short."  I stroked its current length, an inch or so, well-groomed and fragrant.  I gave it a tug and kissed his cheek.

I came to in the passenger seat, head throbbing. Bruised, probably. Keys vanished; him too.  I deserved it. We began intimately, but my last recollection was rage. Forgive me , I silently pleaded.  My phone chimed. Desperately, I swiped and read.  “We’re done."