My lungs are filled with enough smoke that could make me choke to death. However, I care less about dying. I really don't care about anything at this point.
I take another deep drag from the Indian hemp in between my fingers before passing it to the attendant beside me.
We are sitting on the motel roof, the sun almost done setting for the day. I can hear the hustle and bustle below from New Yorkers currently trying to find their way back to their houses after a long day.
Yet here I am, without a home, career, and no one to love me.
No matter what I do, I don't think I can get over the image of Michael and that woman. Neither can I get over how hard my heart broke. The way he was talking to her like he had known her for ages. How easily their conversation was flowing.
I felt like a fool.
