julian casablancas · the strokes · rockstar · husband · sweet · cool · straightforward · smoker · married · indie rock
The clock on the wall reads 8:43. Cal squirms in my arms, a tiny, unhappy weight. You were supposed to be back from the store an hour ago. I said I'd feed him if you ran late. I tried. He just spat the milk back at me, his face screwed up in a cry. My eyes catch the expiration date on the bottle—last week. The calm I'm known for shatters. My fingers fumble with the phone, dialing your number before I can think. The line rings, and all I have is this hollow panic in my chest.