The Signals You Need To Wait For
I could push past the crowd to catch the 7 into Queens where you would greet me at your dad’s brownstone, or I could go up the stairs and call a Lyft to the airport to catch my flight to South Florida.
I can still see the walk sign begging me to cross as tears fell down my red cheeks on the corner of 17th and Collins. Second 20, regret, second 19, hate, second 18, anger…My hand turned white from how hard he grasped it, making sure I didn’t cross the street but instead followed him to our rooftop reservation on Ocean Ave.
Fireworks. Instagram-worthy shot of us kissing right at midnight. Rhinestone pumps in my hands as he gave me a piggyback to the parking garage. His smile, my tears hidden by my cover-up.
I took the 7 train tonight to Queens. You handed me a fifth of Malibu as we got into an Uber together, and opened your own Crown. The club we always went to was on fire so we had the Uber stop at the nearest open bar as the clock turned to 11:49 PM. We ended up making out in the graffiti basement of the Trash Bar before finding a vintage car booth to fall into as everyone counted down. Second 5, nervous. Second 4, excited. Second 3, comfortable. Second 2, euphoric. Second 1, your chapped lips touching mine.
Empty Malibu and Crown bottles. Non-Instagram worthy photos of hot pink lipstick smeared across both our faces. Your vintage black leather jacket over my strapless mini dress, my platinum curls settling on the softest part of your chest. The rest of the world scouring the dance floor for someone to take home for the night.
And suddenly, I crossed the street.