I selected a table as if I were buying it, cleared a lipsticked memento of a previous meeting, held onto my phone. Stared through a window made foggy by rain.
Was a café the right choice? She was often holding wine glasses in her profile photos, in which she pouted unsmilingly, arms around friends and family. I knew those photos as if they weremy tattoos, as if they were my scars. In mine, I was alone.
I smoothed my hair, blonde like hers. The doors cleaved open. Without the glass divide, shelooked like me. Like me, without the scars. I stood up.