CHAPTER 1
Sasha
A sanctuary.
A confessional.
A private hangout where we prepare and celebrate.
A safe haven for disappointment and heartbreak.
A dancer’s dressing room is her home away from home.
With tutus, hairpieces, and bathrobes sharing equal real estate on ubiquitous metal hooks and a long mirror framed with bright, round bulbs, it’s where we ready ourselves for performances, catch power naps between rehearsals, or have a quiet cry so that our onstage smiles can be brilliant.
At the Washington Ballet, I share my dressing room with three other apprentices—Ming Chao, the teenaged zeitgeist from Shanghai, Maria-Elena Silvestri, the nepo baby of a famous Italian ballerina, and Sayaka Nakamura, from Tokyo, who is the oldest of us at twenty-two.
Sitting at my dressing table, I glance to my left, where Sayaka is massaging her shoes in preparation for this afternoon’s performance, and then to my right, where Maria-Elena is texting someone—likely her boyfriend in Milan—on her phone. Beside Maria-Elena, Ming stares at her face in the mirror, her eyes unblinking, her expression intense.
Leaning forward, I swipe black mascara on my already-dark lashes. In forty-five minutes, we will perform Swan Lake to another packed house. Lead roles like Odette and Odile go to company dancers, coveted positions to which we four apprentices greedily aspire. In the meantime, we will join the bevy of swan maidens in the background and thank our lucky stars for the privilege.
My lifelong journey to this dressing room began fifteen years ago, when I was six years old. I fell in love with Miss Susie’s Sunshine Ballet class in first grade and never looked back. And now? As an apprentice at one of the best ballet companies in the world? I am only one step away from company dancer. Every night before bed, I tell myself, It’s just a matter of time.
“Ming,” says Sayaka, her English still a work-in-progress, “I can, um, to borrow…Jet Glue?”
Ming leans forward, finding Sayaka’s face reflected at the end of our shared mirror. “Why are you always borrowing mine ? Why don’t you get your own , dear?”
Sayaka has trouble understanding Ming’s fast, competent English. She blinks her wide, brown eyes at Ming, trying to figure out what she’s done wrong. Opening the drawer in front of me, I pull out a small tube and hand it to her.
“Use mine.”
“Th-thank you,” she says, nodding her head at me, her smile relieved.
My gaze lingers on Sayaka for a moment, watching as she strengthens the shank and box of her pointe shoe with a few drops of glue. Some ballerinas, like Ming, avail themselves of the free shoes provided by the company, breaking in a new pair every other performance. Others, like Sayaka, like to get as much mileage as possible out of the same shoes. Every dancer has her personal preference. I fall somewhere in between.
I turn back to the mirror and finish applying my mascara as Maria-Elena’s phone chirps with an incoming call. She holds it up to her ear, jumping up from her stool beside me.
“ Giuseppe! Che cosa ?” she demands, plopping down on the daybed in the far corner of the room, beside a three-paneled mirror.
Trouble in paradise.
I haven’t known these girls for very long, and frankly, despite the fact that we share a smallish dressing room, I don’t know them all that well. They are coworkers and acquaintances, not friends. But from what I’ve seen so far, Ming is a self-absorbed, overconfident bully, Maria-Elena is an entitled, boy-crazy princess, and Sayaka is just trying to survive far away from home.
I catch her reflection in my mirror as she picks up her second shoe and squeezes the tube of glue. Maybe I should invite her to join me when I go home next Sunday for my mother’s birthday. I’m guessing she could use a home-cooked meal and a little fussing from my mom and babushka. Plus, my brothers will be home, too…and more than one of my friends in high school told me that my still-single brother Greg was pretty solid “eye candy.” Maybe Sayaka will think so, too.
I shift in my seat, about to mention the idea to her, when the door to our dressing room opens.
“Thirty minutes, ladies.”
Ming pivots in her chair to smile at Peter, the assistant stage manager. “Thank you, Peter, dear.”
“You got it, Ming.”
“I’m free after the show,” she says, batting her eyes.
“Good for you.”
“How about coffee?”
“I’m busy tonight. How about tomorrow?”
“We’ll see,” she says, trying to play it cool but failing.
A soft rumble of laughter escapes from his throat. He closes the door, and Ming turns back to the mirror, her smile gone.
“Sayaka,” she says slowly, carefully enunciating her words, “someone needs to tell you the truth. Your pirouette was sloppy last night, dear.”
Sayaka’s head whips up. “What?”
“Your pirouette during la valse des cygnes ,” she says.
“Pirouette?” repeats Sayaka, leaning forward to look at Ming’s reflection.
“Sloppy!” bites Ming, without looking away from her own face.
“S-Sloppy?” asks Sayaka, furrowing her brows. Even if she doesn’t understand the word itself, Ming’s tone is unmistakable.
I sigh loudly, capping my mascara tube and darting a glance at Ming. “I’m sure Madame will give Sayaka notes if they’re needed.”
“Or she will fire Sayaka for her sloppy dancing,” says Ming in a tart, sing-song voice.
“Fire?” says Sayaka, biting her lower lip.
I turn to her and shake my head. “Ignore her. She’s mad because Peter’s not interested.”
Sayaka purses her lips before leaning down to tie her slippers. Now, she’s troubled half an hour before showtime and could be off her game at today’s performance, which is, no doubt, Ming’s aim.
“ Ciao, ciao, mi amore! ” says Maria-Elena, walking back across the room to her stool. She places the phone beside her water bottle, sits down gracefully, then sighs at her reflection.
Paradise restored.
There is a knock at the dressing room door, and Ming pivots in her seat again, fixing an over-bright smile back on her face. “Come in, Peter!”
The door opens, but to Ming’s disappointment, it isn’t Peter this time.
It’s…it’s… Hmm . I don’t know his name, but he’s the younger of the two theater janitors who look after the backstage area. The older janitor, Dominic, is friendly and charming, and reminds me of my Gramps—my mother’s father—giving me a wink or offering a high-five whenever I pass him in the hallway. I’ve never paid much attention to the younger, quieter man who does the same job. There isn’t much to notice. He keeps his head down. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak. He is neither friendly nor charming, like his coworker.
As I glance at him now, standing in the doorway, it occurs to me how out-of-place he is, how drab and masculine he looks at the threshold of our pink and sequined dressing room. He’s disheveled and quiet, with his dark, shaggy head tilted downward, and his gaze fixed on the tiled floor. His ill-fitting polyester pants pool at his ankles, and his feet, in thick black boots, are the antithesis of grace.
“Ugh. It’s no one,” mutters Ming, turning back to the mirror.
He doesn’t react to Ming’s words, and maybe it’s because I’ve had enough of her meanness this afternoon, but I feel compelled to say something.
“Don’t mind her,” I tell him, pivoting on my stool to face him. “Come in. Please.”
He takes a tentative step forward, his head still down. In one hand, he has a bottle of Windex and, in the other, a rag. His fingernails are short and uneven, like maybe he gnaws on them, but his fingers are astonishingly long and elegant, like a pianist’s. Veins crisscross over the back of his hand, the tendrils disappearing up his arm, hidden under the long sleeve of his navy-blue uniform.
He stands just inside the room, not moving. Then, suddenly, he glances up, his eyes catching mine for a split second. What a surprise. I see something there that I don’t expect—something alive and overflowing, like the teeming bubbles that gather at the top of a pot of boiling water.
My body leans forward a touch as he returns his gaze to the floor. Is he here to clean? It’s unusual for the janitorial staff to come by this close to a performance when we’re still getting ready. They’re usually invisible.
“Are you here to—”
“I’ll…come back later,” he mutters, his voice low and gravelly, like he doesn’t use it very often.
“Good. Go now,” says Maria-Elena, adding a little more blush to her cheeks. “You bother us. Do your cleaning work later.”
I am still staring at him, still wondering what I saw in his eyes. I sit up straighter, embarrassed by Ming and Maria-Elena.
“No!” I say. “No. It’s fine. You’re not bothering us at all. You work here just like we do! Come in. Do what you need to do.”
He hesitates for a moment before raising his head to show me a glimpse of those vivid eyes again before looking away. Darn it. I still haven’t been able to make out their color yet, and knowing it has suddenly vaulted to the list of important things I need to know. He moves to the far side of the room, spritzes the full-length mirror, then wipes it down with long, broad strokes.
“He should come back later,” says Ming loudly. “What if we were getting dressed?”
“We weren’t,” I say.
“Maybe I will complain,” she says slowly, repositioning her swan maiden hairpiece, which covers her black hair with diamond-like crystals and white feathers. “His uniform is dirty. He’s creepy. And he smells very bad .”
Ming is no sweetheart, but this is a whole new level of rude, even for her. I gasp in surprise while Maria-Elena bursts into giggles beside me. My cheeks flame with heat, embarrassed for him and ashamed of my company. I am determined to say something— anything —that will show him I’m nothing like Ming and Maria-Elena.
“I don’t smell anything but hard work,” I tell them. “And if his uniform isn’t perfect, it’s only because he spends his days cleaning up after us .”
Ming rolls her eyes and snorts softly.
Turning away from the “gruesome twosome,” I clear my throat, and ask, “Are you Dominic’s son?”
He turns around, his posture dejected, and his eyes still turned down. The silence is heavy and awkward when he doesn’t answer. I am just about to leave him be, when I notice Ming, out of the corner of my eye, standing up.
“Uh! Garbageman!” she barks, snapping her fingers twice before clamping her elegant hands on her hips. “Are you deaf ? Sasha asked you a question. Answer her!”
I clench my teeth together. The last thing I need or want is Ming defending me.
He flinches, his shoulders rolling inward as though to protect himself, and I shoot Ming a look.
“Shut up!” I hiss, springing to my feet.
“Why should I? He works for us.”
“No, he doesn’t,” I bite back, turning to the young man. “You—you don’t have to answer. It’s ok—”
“Sort of,” he mutters.
I don’t know why his answer, consisting of two unspectacular words, makes me so happy, but a relieved smile blooms on my lips as Ming plops back down on her stool. Hearing his voice again feels like a gift.
“Dom’s been good to me,” I say, taking a step toward him. “I can’t count the number of times I’ve forgotten something, and he’s let me in after hours. Always with a kind word. I like your sort-of dad a lot.”
Ming and Maria-Elena snort at my lame attempt at conversation, while the janitor nods, leaning down to pick up a trashcan full of used makeup sponges and Kleenex. He sweeps by me, stepping out of our dressing room to empty our garbage. I wring my hands together.
Does he think these girls are my friends? They’re not . With the possible exception of Sayaka, I don’t even like them. I wish I could yell, “I’m not like them! You’re doing honest work here! I don’t think any less of you for being a janitor.”
When he returns, I hold out my hand to him.
“I didn’t introduce myself before, but I’m Sasha. Sasha Collins. And you are…?”
He hesitates for a moment, staring at my hand. Slowly, he raises his head, and I suck in a gasp of breath as my eyes finally slam—totally and recklessly—into his.
“Gray,” I whisper, staring back at him. Your eyes are blueish-gray and framed with long, dark lashes.
Greedy to see more, I lean back a little, anxious to see his whole face now that it’s been revealed to me.
My stomach drops. I wince before I can help it, then force a weak smile back on my lips. His face is like an unfinished sculpture, an odd and unflattering mix of colors, shapes, and angles. He’s altogether… strange .
His cheeks are so hollow, they are startling in their severity. The bones protrude at extreme angles, as though cut from marble, then stashed beneath his skin. The concave valleys of his cheeks are discolored and rough, pitted and pocked with acne scars in angry hues of lavender and red. Tight and light pink, his lips are very thin, the top lip barely there at all. There is no lushness to them—they lack the pliancy that comes from stretching into a million smiles. My gaze skims back to his striking eyes, which are his saving grace.
Maria-Elena whispers something to Ming, and I gulp, feeling like an idiot on display.
“My name is Vaughn,” he says softly, his eyes holding mine. “Vaughn Cigno.”
“What kind of name is that… Vaughn ?” demands Ming from behind me. “Creeper.”
“ Cigno ,” I say. “That’s ‘swan’ in Italian, isn’t it?”
“Your cognome ees Cigno ?” asks Maria-Elena with a snicker. “ Che scherzo! Eet should be Brutto Anatroccolo instead!”
When she calls him an “ugly duckling” in her native language, it rolls off her tongue with multiple rolling Rs and sounds so lovely, I could almost believe it was a compliment if I didn’t have a passing understanding of Italian.
Vaughn continues to stare at me, his expression unchanged. It’s almost as though he hasn’t heard the other girls’ insulting remarks, like he doesn’t even realize they’re there.
It’s overwhelming to have all of someone’s attention focused so fiercely, and with such unspoken intensity, on me. My heart races. I reach up, placing my free hand over my heart, the crystal beading on the bodice of my costume scraping my palm.
That’s when Vaughn finally reaches out, taking my extended hand in his. Mine—small, white and soft—is enveloped in his, which is dirty, calloused, and rough.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say.
His eyes search mine, questions brimming in the grayish-blue depths.
My lips part, and I am about to say something when he nods at me—one nod, curt and spare—pulls his hand away, and leaves.
***
Vaughn
I’m Sasha. Sasha Collins.
I already knew her name, of course.
I’ve known her name since the day she arrived, six months ago today.
Her name is written with jagged glass on my pathetic heart. The scar stands out, rough and beautiful, steadfast and permanent. Adoring her from afar has been excruciating folly.
Taking a long drag off my cigarette as I stand in the corner of the loading dock behind the theater, I think about the first time I ever saw Sasha Collins.
She was one of six students from the Annapolis Ballet Academy who arrived on January tenth at four o’clock in the afternoon, walking through the front doors of the Kennedy Center in cream-colored snow boots, pink tights, and a navy-blue parka that went down to her knees. There was blue fur around her face, and snowflakes were caught in the ruff, glistening like sapphires.
She stepped into the vast lobby, stomped her feet, and giggled at the girl standing beside her. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and when she lowered her hood, her dark hair was combed back into a tight, tidy bun. But it was her eyes that made me stop mopping the floor and stare. Dark brown and as deep as craters, they were sparkling with hope and excitement, like she was all lit up from inside, like life couldn’t get any better than it was right that second.
Taking in the grand lobby with a smile of pure enchantment, she asked the girl beside her if she knew where to go. When her friend shook her head no, she looked to her left and saw me.
“Hi! Sir! Hi. Um, excuse me, but do you know where the auditions are held?”
Her smile wavered a touch when I didn’t answer, but hand to God, I don’t think I could have spoken if my whole life had depended on it. I was speechless. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, and I was lost in the sight of her. Cocking her head to the side, with her sweet smile still in place, as though I wasn’t a gangly, ugly, mute man holding a mop. “Auditions? Any idea where to go?”
Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I hooked my thumb toward a small sign taped to a wall on the far left of the lobby.
“Oh! There we go!” Her smile widened, her gratitude sincere and true. “Great. Thank you so much!”
And then she was off—this unexpected snow angel and her little troupe of friends. I’m pretty sure my heart leaped from my chest and followed her across the lobby, disappearing down the hallway that led to the theater where she would audition for the Washington Ballet.
Sasha was the best of the six. I know this because I watched her dance from a crack in the foyer door.
It didn’t surprise me when I learned, three weeks later, that she was the only student from her school selected as an apprentice. What did surprise me, however, was how I felt when I saw the announcement. My breath caught. My heart leaped. A bolt of joy flashed through me at the mere thought of seeing her again. Joy. Joy. In my whole life, I couldn’t remember another time I’d ever felt anything close to joy.
She arrived the day after Valentine’s Day to start rehearsals, and whenever possible, I watched her. I took every daytime shift I could, even if it meant working a double. I didn’t mind working doubles on the days she rehearsed or performed. I quietly lived for a glimpse of her on stage or for the rosy glow of her smile as she headed back to her dressing room after a solid rehearsal.
And at first, it was enough just to know she was near, just to share space and air with her.
But as days turned into weeks turned into months, it wasn’t enough to admire her from afar. Besides polite and absent-minded thank-yous when I emptied her trash, she never took note of me after that first day in the lobby.
Unrequited longing wears thin on a reluctant heart. Especially one as battered as mine.
And so tonight, six months to the day that Sasha arrived at the Kennedy Center, I was going to—
The door to the loading dock opens, and I look over to see the face of Dom, my “sorta” dad. He pinches his fingers together and waggles his wrist at me.
“You a-takin’ a break already?”
Dom is originally from Calabria, and his strong Italian accent is comforting to me.
“Already?” I say, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “One smoke. Sue me.”
“Sue me, he says.” Dom loves busting my balls. “How long you been a-workin’ today, Vonnie?”
“Ten hours? Give or take?”
He tries to peek behind my back. “You a-readin’ one of your books out here?”
“Not tonight. I promise.”
“You and your books.” He shakes his head. “How about we do some work, eh?”
“Yeah,” I say, crushing the butt of my cigarette under my work boot. “You win, Dom. I’m coming.”
“You gonna die from those sigaretta , Vonnie, yeah?”
“Probably,” I say with a shrug.
As I follow him back into the dark hallway where hundreds of sets have been loaded and unloaded over the years, one word he just said resonates in my head. Die.
Here’s something nobody knows but me. I was going to kill myself tonight.
“The show started. The dressing rooms are empty.” Dom glances over his shoulder at me. “I’ll start on the left, and you—”
“On the right,” I finish for him. Then I remember, I already took care of Sasha’s. “Hey! I already got the last one on the left.”
“Ah! You lighten my load,” he says, heading down the hallway. “You’re a good worker, Vonnie. A good boy.”
When I arrived at work today, I intended for it to be my last day—at the Kennedy Center, in Washington D.C., and on earth. But after exchanging a handful of words with Sasha, I’m not sure I want to go through with it anymore.
A long time ago, I remember hearing a story about a boy planning to “end it all.” He had stolen his foster father’s gun, wrapped it in a dishtowel, and stashed it in his middle school locker at school. His plan was to finish out the school day, then head to the woods behind the gym. That’s where he planned to do it. Shoot himself. Kill himself. Die.
But on that same day, something surprising happened. Something miraculous even. A teacher, whom he didn’t know very well, had complimented his writing. She had told him that his writing was promising, and that she would be happy to recommend him for a special after-school class for talented writers.
Promising. Talented. Words he’d never—in a million years—expected anyone to use when describing him.
And just like that…in the blink of an eye, he had a reason to live. Suddenly, he could see farther down the road of his life than the overwhelming, all-consuming, terrible now. Someone thought he was promising. Someone thought he was talented.
He returned the gun to his foster father’s sock drawer and joined the after-school writing club. Years later, he returned to that school as a respected author, and in the speech he gave to the student body, he recognized that teacher. He told the story of how she had inadvertently saved his life.
I always liked that story. But now? Now, I can relate to it in a way I never did before.
As my thick rubber soles scuffle softly against the floor, I marvel at what just happened between me and Sasha. In such a short exchange, so much happened. We spoke. She defended me. We saw each other.
It stuns me how much my mood has suddenly changed, how a life that seemed unbearable half an hour ago now has… potential. My heart speeds up with something that feels like hope as I wonder if she’ll talk to me again tomorrow, or the next day, or next month even. And I know, in the depths of my profoundly lonesome being, that it’s worth it to stay alive if I might get the chance to know her better.
Just like the boy who brought his foster father’s gun to school, I had a plan for today, and I knew exactly how it was going to go down. I’d even written a note to Dom and Lottie, my one-time foster parents and current landlords, and left it in the basement apartment I rent from them.
Dear Dom and Lottie:
First things first. It’s not you. It’s me.
You’ve been good to me, so don’t spend a second wondering if you did anything wrong. You didn’t. You offered me a home, you found me a job, and you were kind. The closest I ever came to fitting in on this earth was with you, but it just isn’t enough.
My savings are in an envelope under the mattress. I leave it all to you with my thanks.
Vonnie
I remember the note, folded in half, lying neatly on my pillow. They were supposed to find it later tonight, after I’d been found dead. I hope that Lottie doesn’t go downstairs to straighten up. If she does, I’ll have a lot of explaining to do.
As I wipe down mirrors and empty trash cans, I recall Sasha’s voice, brimming with the kind of hope and warmth she owns so effortlessly.
Dom’s been good to me. I like your sorta-dad a lot.
Her eyes, shadowed with ice blue powder, had met mine, and she whispered the color of my eyes, g ray . In that split second, I felt seen, I felt reborn, I felt like I’d been transfigured from a shadow figure into a living, breathing man.
Shadows. Hmm.
In fairness, I’ve lived most of my life in the shadows.
I’m introverted.
I watch and listen more than I talk.
I’d rather read alone than hang out with a crowd.
I like women but find small talk excruciating and flirtation virtually impossible.
I’m a misfit. An oddball. An outsider.
But maybe that’s what happens to kids who don’t know where they’re from or who their parents were. They become teens and young adults without shape or substance. How can you be a fully formed person, after all, when you have no history, background, or foundation? My early childhood is a mystery. How can you figure out where you’re going when you have no idea of where you’ve been?
My first and very dim memories are of a blue-eyed woman who spoke gibberish to me. So many words that meant nothing for so long. When I finally started to understand her words, she told me that my “real” parents didn’t want me anymore and smacked me when I cried for them. Eventually, I stopped crying. I stopped making any voluntary noise at all. In fact, it was something that my first adoptive parents didn’t like very much. I vaguely remember a conversation from long ago, hushed voices speaking near me, about me.
“This again?” the man hisses. “I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep since he arrived!”
“I think he needs therapy. Those people said his parents died in an accident. I think he’s reliving it or something,” says a woman.
“ Doo-sha. Ma-ya,” I whisper the secret words into my pillow.
I am lying in a bed, facing a light-blue wall. My eyes are burning, and my cheeks are wet. I’ve peed in my pajamas, but I don’t know how to tell them I need to change. The words in my head are “nonsense” and make no sense to anyone.
“This isn’t what I signed on for, Chelsea. I agreed to a baby. How old is this kid? Four? Five? He doesn’t say a word all day, then wakes up the neighborhood screaming every night. There’s something wrong with him.”
“He’s in perfect physical health. The doctor said so.”
“Well, he’s not in perfect mental health. Where did he come from? Where are his papers?”
“Papers? Jesus! He’s not a dog.”
“You know what I mean. We shouldn’t have used those people. God only knows where he came from.”
“The waiting list at the Georgetown adoption agency was four years long! We agreed—”
“I didn’t agree to this! He’s creepy as fuck.”
“Stop it,” she says.
“I can’t do this anymore. I hate to say it,” the man says, “but it’s either him or me…”
I lost that draw of course.
I don’t know how old I was, but I vaguely remember being taken to a large waiting room with overhead TVs and light-green chairs. I have a dim memory of a lady saying, “Sorry,” and kissing my forehead before she disappeared. Lots of people came and went from the room, some vomiting, some bleeding, some screaming and crying. It was scary and cold, and I sat there all day, until the receptionist came over to me and asked where my parents were.
I didn’t know what to say—partially because I wasn’t sure of the words and partially because I didn’t know who my parents were.
I’ve retroactively identified that room as a hospital emergency room.
My life story, as far as I can tell, goes something like this. I was put up for adoption by my birth parents, whoever they were. I lived with someone for a while before I was adopted by Chris and Chelsea. They abandoned me at that hospital, and because I didn’t know anything about myself, social services had no choice but to place me in the foster care system.
I bounced around until I was fourteen, when I landed at Dom and Lottie’s. With them, I finally found some peace.
I glance at my phone. I have two more dressing rooms to go. If I hurry, I’ll be able to catch a glimpse of her racing off-stage after Act 2, her eyes sparkling from the rush of adrenaline.
She loves the applause, but she lives for the work.
And I live for her, for the short bursts of hope and joy and warmth she shares with me. For the way she makes me feel. For the simple fact that she makes me feel anything at all.
Before today, I never thought she’d notice me, and I knew I’d never get up the courage to speak to her. And my ruthless heart wouldn’t let me forget it.
You’re going to be all alone. Forever.
You’re ugly and strange.
You barely speak, and when you do, you have nothing to say.
You’re an assistant janitor who lives in his foster parents’ basement. You have nothing to offer.
And the most damning reason of all for why a beautiful ballerina would never, ever see me… Even your own parents didn’t want you.
When I left the house this morning, I put the razor blades in my pockets. They’re still there, ready to slice into my flesh and stop the painful whisperings of my heart.
But, just in the nick of time, I got a Hail Mary, an unexpected reprieve.
She looked at me.
She spoke to me.
She saw me.
And even if that’s all I get for a while, it’s enough for now. It’s enough to make me want to live another day. I don’t know what will happen in the future, but for now, I’ve been rescued. I’ve been given clemency. Genuine kindness from a beautiful girl has changed everything.
I pluck the brown, paper-covered razor blades from the dark depths of my pocket and toss them into my garbage can on wheels.
On a night when I had only pondered sad endings, I can’t help but wonder if today is instead a new beginning.