None of my relationships last more than a year. This one is three months.
GRACIE ABRAMS BY WILSON ABBY COMEY 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 124
My sister orders Indian food and we watch the debate on TV. She shouts at the screen. I laugh when they fight over who is better at golf. Afterwards we sit heavy with curry and the nation’s doom.
“Something’s wrong,” my sister says.
I point at the screen. She shakes her head. “Something else.”
She’s right. It’s something else. A third world war. Millions dead. New global order.
I say I have to pee. Five minutes later I am in the elevator.
I tear across Key Bridge just before midnight. I turn up the music, roll down the windows. Gracie Abrams is sad, so sad. The river smells like sewage.
I can see all of Arlington, Deloitte, the abandoned Marriott, the high-rise where I lived with my sister before she decided she wanted to be closer to it all, George Washington Parkway, the intersection of Nash and Langston, the Virginia is for Lovers billboard.
Okay, the thing is that I’m breaking up with someone.