It turned out to be nothing. Like a false number used by a very pretty girl to let a not so pretty guy down easy. The rejection hotline.

I am nothing.

My days kept montone and drowned in grey abyss.

It was Friday and I picked up a bagel, the first food I’ve had for three days. Coffee doesn’t count.

And then, as I took a cannible bite, getting low-fat cream cheese all over my fresh BerryCute lipstick, I saw the numbers.

They were large, metal, industrial sized cutouts on a similar looking wall as to the one..

Wait.

I peered closer, daring to step across the street. A car honked and my scarf nearly escaped in the mid-winter wind. My boots clipped the pavement, rushed and anxious, matching my heartbeat.

I stumbled and caught myself on the display window. Blue jeans. Beautiful, deep sea blue jeans. He was associated with this company.

The number company. With an industrial, boho, rough outlook on life. And blue jeans. “Holy shit,” I whispered in prayer and stepped inside.