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Molly Davidson

We lay on a crossroads at 4 a.m., pissed out of our god-damn minds. I vaguely remember asking: won’t we get hit? Unsure of whether or not I vocalised the question, I stumbled onto the ground nonetheless and decided to let fate take its course. My head lulled back onto the concrete and I watched the stars simultaneously disappear and reappear. I turned my head lazily to look at you. It was spring, and we were supposed to be hopeful, but it felt like the end of something. We didn’t know what the future would be like. People like us live in the present, you see.
        You said, ‘I hope we’ll stay friends,’ and I agreed with a faint smile. And then you added, ‘I wonder what we’ll make of ourselves.’ I wondered this too. Briefly. I thought you’d travel the world and continue to be wealthy. You’d find a wife with as much vivacity as your mother had when she was alive. You’d start a family and, ultimately, you’d be happy. But me? What about me? Maybe I’m stuck here. Maybe that’s my fate: immobility.
        You looked expectant, waiting for a response to your philosophical ramblings. A grey cat separated the space between us and nudged my shoulder with its head. I outstretched my hand to it, feeling the vibrations of its purr against my skin, and I laughed. The roads were dead. Nothing was coming.