by Kirsti MacKenzie Simon Berger Not that you give a fuck, but hello. It’s July and my toes are painted orange. I’m sat twenty-one storeys above a city fifteen hours away, thinking of car rides to nowhere in the dead of January. You’d hate if I came cheap and sentimental — hello, old friend — like some kind of asshole. Because we’re not friends, not anymore. You taught me the cost of sentiment. Would you be surprised to know I never learned? My insides are soft and gooey. The