the key, the twenty, the photograph

The key. Robin found it in the sock and held it up and didn't ask, which is worse than asking. She said the thing about earning, and she was right, and I put it back because what was I going to do. I have been holding it in this apartment since I moved in for someone I am not going to name in this drawer. That is the truth of it. That is the only truth.

The twenty from mom. She folded it into the card and the card was postmarked Atlanta and I keep opening and closing it like if I read the note properly I will have to feel something larger than I have room for tonight. Twenty dollars. I make more than that in an hour somewhere in Midtown. But it is hers and she sent it and Robin carried it across a state line for me to hold, and now it is in my hand and Robin is on a train.

The man at Penn. He did not lower his phone when I turned. He knew. He did it with his whole body knowing. I lifted my phone and photographed him photographing me and now I have two pictures on my screen and I keep looking at them side by side like a Rorschach. Yesterday I wrote that I was tired of photographing myself as evidence. Tonight I have a photograph of someone who wanted me as evidence and I do not know what to do with it. I want to send it to someone. I do not want to send it to anyone. I keep not sending it.