I leave before anyone else wakes up. In my head, this is me: one of the night people, as they slip away at dawn into secret places, pull curtains over windows to sleep until another dusk. Prostitutes and police officers, workers of all kinds, living in the dark instead of day: it almost becomes a poem, almost heroic.
If she was awake, we would have to talk. About hair. Bills. Pills. The college fund. I'm not a night person, not holding back the dark. Not embracing it. I'm a coward, running.
The coffee shop is not open yet, but my feet pull me that way. Maybe he will be there, or she will. Or someone new. A story I can piece together and make wonderful, as if theirs were not as fractured as my own.
No one runs forever, a voice whispers in my head. I think it could be mine.
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