Imaginary Socialite

Conrad calls and it’s too early.

“Let’s move,” he whispers into the phone, a dare.

Move? I can barely breathe.

“Let’s just go. We’re young and we don’t need to check in with anyone. We could leave it all and find it somewhere else. I’m pretty much done. I think it’s time.”

My sheets are from Cynthia Rowley and they’re a little bit Little Kid. I pull them up over my head, a blanket fort, to consider. Unweaving myself from my life. Taking me out. I don’t know.

“What do you really want?” I ask him and he throws it back at me. “You hate it here,” he says, a fact. “You’re bored and bummed and you want to leave. You’re just scared.”

I scoff.

“Hey,” he asks, “What do you really want?”

And of course it’s a million things and a million people, and none of them match and I can’t admit half of them. At least not yet.

Instead: “Why do you want to move when we drink here for free?”

We laugh and I click off the phone, but I won’t come out from under the covers.

[SARAH LERFEL - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

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