I was walking down Bourbon Street, the noise from the bars deafening even at 4pm on a Wednesday and I felt my phone vibrate against my bra. I was just running to the store for some milk and a pack of Marlborough Reds and the pockets in my jean skirt didn't fit my phone. I stopped carrying a purse whenever possible months ago to reduce the risk of someone grabbing it and instead taken to tucking credit cards, keys and my phone into my bra. I was always surprised by just how much fit.
Stepping into the shadow of a doorway to check the text message I discovered it was from you. You who I had left behind. You who contacted me whenever you liked, but would never return my calls. Even when I wanted to ask you for a divorce I had to make an appointment with your secretary. But here you were again. Even in the shad sweat gathered on my back. The August heat as oppressive as the smell of bleach. "Jim Carroll died. Was thinking about the last show we saw him perform in."
I held the phone until the screen went blank.