X stared at his text message.
The music was building. Electronic synths climbing towards the chorus. Everything felt dramatic. She was tucked away in the back bedroom of a small, brick box in the Upper East Side. Very little had made it with her, and she was becoming incredibly familiar with the contents of her two suitcases.
Los Angeles had been hollow. It stained her with a golden tan. She brought the warmth with her to New York. Now all became a game. But she couldn’t decide who she was playing against.
A fork in the road. But damn did she love the journey. The uncertainty that clung to the end of the month, why was it so thrilling? She had romanticized about these days. Sharing a single fridge and toilet with three strangers; guys; finding more faces to populate her dreams on the 4,5, or 6 train heading back Uptown. Being able to say Uptown.
The curious case of the number 22. She was infected.
“I had sex for money once. But I was in Amsterdam.” Roommate said. He was French.
That somehow made it alright.