IN THOSE DAYS WE
UN CAFE By J. Bradley
I don’t know why Donna puts the bendy straw in my cup of coffee. I can bend down just fine and sip from the rim. I only ruined my shirt half the time. I think she likes to watch the torture of the coffee crawling up the straw, the parts of my mouth that still work playing tug of war with gravity, how I sweat just to get that searing hit of caffeine. Love isn’t watching someone die; it’s living long enough to make the one you love suffer quietly for everything you did and didn’t do.
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