Sealed. Shut.

Waiting to cross the street, I felt a hovering hand on my lower back. Looming softly over the brim of my ass, it lurked, almost in desperation, wanting to land.

I looked at him, and with my eyes tried to say "what do you think you're doing?"

He just smiled, "watch your left -- after the blue car we can go. I got'cha."

Part of my body wished it had steel spikes, or stinging acid to ward off unwanted ex-lovers' touches. I wanted to tell him I didn't feel comfortable, I wanted to step to my left and out of his reach, I wanted the cars that were coming to slow so I could run ahead and no longer feel his warmth through my coat. But my mouth wouldn't move.

Then his hand slipped down. With purpose. And now rested on my right cheek.

Still, as if wired shut, my mouth wouldn't move. It wouldn't move. It wouldn't move. I couldn't. Just couldn't ...

"Rose! Rose! What are you doing! A car ..."

I don't know why I couldn't have just told him to move his hand. Why didn't my lips part or my tongue bite?

The blare of the Mercedes horn didn't scare me. The screech of tires and smell of hot, wet rubber didn't embarrass me. The shocked and curious stares of passers-by didn't phase me. Neither did the "what the fuck is your goddamn problem!" from the driver.

None of it mattered. None of it mattered because I was now on the other side of the street. His hand no longer lurking. Our relationship done, over and in the past.

My lips, still not moving.

I was safe. Iwas safe, alone, and no longer part of him.