queer, latino fiction in the new yorker!! you go, justin torres!!!

We stayed on the phone. I stayed in the back. Nigel walked toward the train. The man on the bicycle waited. I pleaded and apologized and pretended I did not want to break up as much as I really did want to break up. All the while, I felt such anger; I was so tired of apologizing. Nigel was always finding discarded plants and taking them home to regenerate. Everywhere in our apartment were plants, thriving. This, too, infuriated me—and when Nigel instructed me not to come home that night, when he told me to come by the next day, while he was at work, and remove all my shit and never come home again, I thought of those plants, of a space in the world without them.