I celebrated that your spell was broken, then you sent me a photo of you in Budapest. “I’m here for two more weeks.” Only a woman could keep you there that long. She must be skinny, tall, white because I am not. I text, “Oh! What's in Hungary?” I use the exclamation to hide my actual question. You reply, “It’s cheap and I can be alone here,” like you aren’t when we’re together. My panic is postponed; the slender woman in the fog disappears. One day I will deal with it, that you are able to love but not me.
Tamim Khalanj is a Palestinian-American writer who lives (and will die) in New York City. www.tamim.info Instagram: @pissbowling