The Poet watched the car's tail lights shrink. He fingered his sensible piece, warm and dry in his coat pocket. Learn how to drive, asshole-yourself. As he approached Katrina's apartment building, The Poet considered his options. He could stand here, under the awning of the building across the street, and wait to see her pass her window.
Most times watching is okay.
The air smelled raw and meaty. It would be good to dry off a little. Or, he could call her from the pay phone in the lobby. Maybe she isn't even home. He noticed a light was on in her apartment.