“We have schedules to keep,” she says.
Fine. Keep your schedules. Christmas first, then my birthday, then yours: keep them all. I don’t want them anymore.
Leave me by the side of the road. Keep walking, and take your schedules with you. There’s something we left behind, and I can’t go on without it. You can’t make me.
You can’t make me anything anymore. It’s time for un-making. You have schedules, but I have a date with God.
My feet go dark. My belly makes a fist. A green flame flickers in my chest. My mouth unzips to let out a soft sad furious “no.” It zips shut again. The rest of this story is not for you.