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A yellow scarf, today, breaks our secret routine. We take the 5 at Franklin to Union Square. The sound of metal grinding and greasy air makes up the spaces where we do not speak. Yellow Scarf hangs unevenly over your shoulder, a lover, co-dependent, and no more in love with you than he can speak the definition of such a thing. In his nonchalance, we share intimate nothings, gestures of sighs, glances at watches, phones and floors just for the fleeting thrills we might steal from our peripherals. “Nice scarf,” A lady says. You always exit before I do. Gizzi’s greets us with dim lights, warm coffee and quiet from the city’s vibration. You and Yellow Scarf head towards the back where a seat saved among friends await. It is our routine. Yet everyday feels like a stumble, a staggering loss of balance in the pace of breathing–reeling, grasping at the air between us hoping that just once the city might look away…not gleam so brightly on our silence. This is our routine. Tomorrow, I promise myself, I will say hello. The streetlights come on. You always leave when the evening purples. In my peripherals, I always watch you and lean toward the lupine air that trails. This is our routine. Today, though, the Yellow Scarf hangs on the back of your seat. You left it. A lover jilted; the space around your shoulders vacant.