When I sat down across from you in the coffee shop, quaking and shorn from my comfort zone, I realized that I was wearing the same shirt I wore the last time I saw you. Threadbare, sea-glass green and still smelling of your Aqua di Gio, the scent clogging up my nostrils and tangling in my hair. You loved to grab at it, see how much it could take before it ripped. That last time when you took me home I was locked in a dark corner, shrinking into myself as your hands wandered, exploring, reaching, wanting. That same night was chalky with snow, the ground so white it made your ceiling look lighter. I pushed you away with my words and my shaking hand and said something that made you break me, made you put on your shoes and take me home, made you throw me away into the hare-bright snow in my thin green sweater that couldn’t last another winter alone. After that it took me a moment to realize I wasn’t thinking about you at all.

By Dina Folgia