She doesn't reset the day. There are no iterations of their text conversation used to pinpoint the location of B's phone. She doesn't waste time staking out the bar only to find that he doesn't even text her if she stays there, let alone show up. There is no maddening series of near misses when she tries to find him, or stubborn silences and discarded burners when she takes the initiative and texts him, first. She doesn't reset over and over in pursuit of the right combination of moves that will get her to him.
She doesn't make progress.
Here is how it happens.
She knows the bar (knows the whole goddamn neighborhood better than she'd like to, by now), and she keeps her distance, because that's the only thing that works. There's a little park a few blocks away, and she sends her last text from there, muscle memory making it quick and perfunctory. God, she's so sick of this conversation.
Then she settles back against a bench to wait. B's not going to sit in a bar forever, and there are only so many routes out of the neighborhood he might take. This is one of the more pleasant ones, so maybe she'll get lucky. She opens an app on her phone, freshly installed this morning and far too familiar, and watches to see where B's phone decides to go this time.
no subject
Here is how it doesn't happen.
She doesn't reset the day. There are no iterations of their text conversation used to pinpoint the location of B's phone. She doesn't waste time staking out the bar only to find that he doesn't even text her if she stays there, let alone show up. There is no maddening series of near misses when she tries to find him, or stubborn silences and discarded burners when she takes the initiative and texts him, first. She doesn't reset over and over in pursuit of the right combination of moves that will get her to him.
She doesn't make progress.
Here is how it happens.
She knows the bar (knows the whole goddamn neighborhood better than she'd like to, by now), and she keeps her distance, because that's the only thing that works. There's a little park a few blocks away, and she sends her last text from there, muscle memory making it quick and perfunctory. God, she's so sick of this conversation.
Then she settles back against a bench to wait. B's not going to sit in a bar forever, and there are only so many routes out of the neighborhood he might take. This is one of the more pleasant ones, so maybe she'll get lucky. She opens an app on her phone, freshly installed this morning and far too familiar, and watches to see where B's phone decides to go this time.