When they tell the story of what happened between me and you and you and you, it will be painted this garish gold. That hue, I mean. Nauseating. Garish.

When I try telling that particular story, I am usually talking to the bathroom wall.

There are major points that act as landmarks, dotting the landscape of our love affairs like smoking tire fires. A 3-legged dog. A girl in a pink dress leading a mule.

"Slow down! You’ll hurt someone acting that way. Shit."

The confessional that exists in the space between the toilet and the wall tile reverberates with the usual bullets.

A black and white photograph: a girl marooned in the middle of an empty bed, the sun pouring in, her hair a hot white light. (Bang!)
A Toy Machine T-shirt. No, a room full of Toy Machine T-shirts clinging to the chiseled torsos of 100 boys. (Pow!)
A discarded Scarface VHS box and an official handful of paper crumpled into a fist. (Zap!)
That email. (Bing!)
3 red lights. (Zow!)
Half of one whole heart. Wet.

When they tell the story of me and you and you and you, I hope they get the ending right.