The City Knows Where You Are
Songs into Stories: The 1975 — №2
The city has eaten me up and spat me out.
I knew it the day Dane broke up with me. His eyes were soulless as he dealt the blow before taking out his pack of cigarettes, tapping out one, and lighting up right in front of me as we sat outside in metal chairs hot from the summer sun.
He said he didn’t love me anymore with just a few words — “I don’t think it’s going to work out, Liss. You get it, don’t you?” — as I sat there, numb, waiting for the waitress to deliver my Caesar salad in its to-go box. My stomach roiled its protest, and I wanted nothing more than to choke up the contents of my lunch on Dane’s patent leather shoes. The bastard probably wouldn’t have cared — he would just go buy another pair before chucking the old ones in the garbage — but I wanted some way to defeat him in the way he had just walked all over my heart.
He met my eyes serenely, without care, and I wanted to lash out.
“You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Go to hell. I want you to go to hell.”
“Please delete yourself from my memory. For God’s sake, please.”
But he was still sitting there, minding his cigarette with his too-pretty mouth, and I wondered just what I’d done…
