If I fled, I’d be found. If I bled, I’d be bound.
If I escaped, I’d be lost. If I cried, I’d be tossed.
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If I fled, I’d be found. If I bled, I’d be bound.
If I escaped, I’d be lost. If I cried, I’d be tossed.
“Will you come over?” she asks suddenly.
“Now?”
She might have asked me over an hour ago. Now, I’m in yoga pants—the pair I wear so often they never see the inside of my dresser. It’s Tuesday. I’ve already planned the evening in my head: leftover lasagna, another glass of wine (or two), reality dating shows, a hot shower before bed.
Give all that up?