When I came home from the barber’s shop with a bandage on my hand, she asked what had happened. I was embarrassed to admit I’d put a hand up to signify where to stop cutting, but the blind man had simply snipped on, my finger merely an obstacle to his scissors. But, her love for me trumps my oddness, her way of coming to me in silken garb, her skin drenched in sweat, the fine hairs on her upper lip moist. 

My hands shook while taking the key. I pictured a room with candles lit, scattered around the bed for that ambient effect. There were rose petals, too, sprinkled around the floor and bedding. I bet it even had a skylight, so that you could look up at the stars after sex, then contemplate the meaning of life. It was going to be the most perfect moment. 

Aunt Mona’s on Facebook. She wanted to keep up with her family and she took a computer class at the local community college, and everyone in the class signed up so she did too. That was six months ago and now she was hooked on the damn thing. Today was her niece Gretchen’s birthday (not that she needed a silly old website to tell her that!), and the pressure had been building for weeks. Mona had to write on Gretchen’s wall. She didn’t want to be too over-the-top or clingy, or any of the bad things that aunts can be. But she also didn’t want to be common or lame or write something with an obligatory, cold air, Happy Birthday, Gretchen. Ick. And should she text her in addition to writing on her wall, or should she just write on her wall? Life was more complicated all the time with the damn computers and the smartphones and the Facebook.

Aunt Mona’s on Facebook. She wanted to keep up with her family and she took a computer class at the local community college, and everyone in the class signed up so she did too. That was six months ago and now she was hooked on the damn thing. Today was her niece Gretchen’s birthday (not that she needed a silly old website to tell her that!), and the pressure had been building for weeks. Mona had to write on Gretchen’s wall. She didn’t want to be too over-the-top or clingy, or any of the bad things that aunts can be. But she also didn’t want to be common or lame or write something with an obligatory, cold air, Happy Birthday, Gretchen. Ick. And should she text her in addition to writing on her wall, or should she just write on her wall? Life was more complicated all the time with the damn computers and the smartphones and the Facebook. 

When I lost my job as head waiter of the Surfing Whale, I was so desperate for cash that I put my car on Craigslist. Put it up for dirt cheap. Two-thousand bucks. The thing was only four years old and hadn’t even sniffed 20,000 miles yet. A Jaguar. For two-thousand bucks.

Ol’ Tom and I met years ago, back when we were both shot-nosed shits playing bad ass and trying to hold up the central store. We spent many a night in jail together then. When we stole the horses and the warrant went out, we just about sealed our doom. But hell if we weren’t happy about it. We crossed the border out of Arizona that year and hid out down in Mexico. We used our own wanted posters for target practice which we believed made us very tough. 

After you finish your drinks, he will ask you to dance. You will lace your fingers between his before realizing that you’re smiling and nodding. You’ll like that he asks your permission. Lead him to the crowded dance floor and sway a bit when he twirls you into him effortlessly. Your hips will know what to do. His fingers will rest on them for a song, then they’ll begin to creep up past your belt, making contact with your bare stomach. They will feel like those menacing hands from Saturday night. Your throat constricts. Your heart lurches forward. You will need air. Mouthfuls and mouthfuls of air.

Did I mention that Melanie had kicked me out of her wedding party only weeks before the affair? So no longer a bridesmaid, my new duty at the wedding was social pariah meets convalescent meets object of pity.

Write half a story while drinking IPAs. Go to sleep. Wake up next day and study scrawled words on page. Realize you have no clue what the hell it means.

I was lying in bed, and the muffled tones of my parents voices drifted through the heat register.

“What about them?” I heard Dad say.

“Oh, Dirk. You know that this isn’t about them. Don’t drag them into it.”