I wanted to delete everything from my life. Erase it with a metaphorical wad of rubber and leave the eroded graphite behind. But everything was in ink, and unless I burned it, the story would remain. And I did not want to die by fire.
Sitting by the bus stop, I drank from a lukewarm bottle of champagne and contemplated the events of the night. People shuffled past me, staring at my disheveled hair and tousled suit. Someone, they accurately thought, had been jilted.