February Seventh. Opus Daily Practice. Sour.

In the car back from the party, they ride far apart from one another. She is bitting down on either cheek. She can no longer stomach the way he makes random observations of people on the sidewalks, or the ironic shirts he orders online, or the conversation he is having with the Uber driver when they ask her opinion. She says, “I don’t like either one.” In the morning she leaves before he is awake. That lie becomes the last words she will ever impart to him. She prefers Lennon, she tells herself later, in line beneath the harsh white light at an all-night pharmacy near the beach. Who the fuck else, but John Lennon? She is so close to the beach that she can hear the surf clap at the shore. She can taste it.FDM