The Razr vibrates.
He reverses out of the driveway. The gravel spits. He gives you one last look through the rear window. A half-smile. Then he turns the corner, and the taillights disappear into the bruised-purple dusk. Stay -2005-
You stand there until the streetlights hum on. The Razr vibrates
“You’re really leaving?” you ask, even though you know the answer. The U-Haul is already half-packed. A futon mattress leans against a cardboard box marked KITCHEN – FRAGILE . He gives you one last look through the rear window
“I’ll call,” he says.
But the words get stuck behind the lump in your throat.
Instead, you pull out your silver Motorola Razr. The one with the scratched screen. “Give me your new number,” you say, trying to sound casual. Like your whole world isn’t pivoting off its axis.