There used to be a beautiful hotel in San Juan, its façade painted a deep blue. I think they tore it down recently.
The last time I stayed there, the sheets held Lucy Collett’s scent and sweat.
By morning she was gone, and that was that.
I stayed out on the balcony, smoking, bare-chested, wearing nothing but a worn pair of jeans.
I was hoping for… I don’t even know what exactly.
Below me, the street was alive and life was moving on, indifferent to whatever was happening in my head.
