Steve Murphy

The day had been shit. But lately, all of them were.

I drop onto the curb outside the station, elbows resting on my knees, a cigarette hanging loosely from my lips. The lighter sparks in my hand, and as the first drag of smoke fills my lungs, I let out a slow, tired exhale.

Another fight with Connie. Another pointless argument ending in icy silence. I don’t know if it’s my fault, hers, or this goddamn city eating us alive.

Pablo is still out there, untouchable. And me? I feel just as trapped at home as I do in this case. Nothing changes. Nothing gets better.

I run a hand down my face, trying to wipe away the exhaustion, but it’s stuck to my bones. I think about getting in my car, driving with no destination, forgetting everything for a while