Part Two

At 4:21, three minutes after I killed my own engagement, my mother called.

BEATRICE FARRINGTON glowed on the screen until it went to voicemail.

I turned the phone face down on the seat and watched the city slide past the window: wet concrete, black coats, taxis, snow gone gray at the curb.

People hurrying under umbrellas as if it were an ordinary February afternoon.

It seemed absurd that the world kept moving.