My new iphone application claims there is a nearby subway station. I don’t buy it.
I knew this neighborhood well. I hid my sobbing—yeah, convulsive gasps while weeping—right there under the awning of that Korean produce shop that day I learned my first ever white boyfriend had this other Asian boy on the side.
I am never into white boys. Color always does something in me crazy. But there was something black with this white boy.
It starts to get really dim. A lightning flashes. From a block away, there it is. I can read the subway sign, crimson with the number two logo.