Friday night in Fitzroy. The haloed streetlights almost blurred into tears as I walked underneath stormy skies.
Between the cantinas and bodegas that line these rainy streets, I found myself wondering if that one-way flight had salvaged my sanity after all.
I passed by a window and there he sat, at a table for two across from a woman that he could hardly listen to. I could tell by the way he looked at me through the glass — the pause of his fork, and a double take that lingered for a second too long.
He’s dreaming of the girl he saw that Friday night in Fitzroy, painting his night skies with who she could have been.
But darling I’ve never been that girl, the one to save you from all those hopeful could-have-been’s.