She’s looking at herself in the mirror, and he knows this is bad news. I hate the parts you like about me, she says. Then he packs his bags.

The High Priest of the Stoics watches the glass of milk tip over. He’s surprised by the emotion he feels. What’s happening to me? he wonders.

We drifted toward each other, very slowly, like dumb continents, and when my friends would ask why, I’d say, She looks a lot like my mother.

We argued without settling anything. And I pulled down my zipper. Then the cop tapped on the window. Blame her, I said, trying to act happy.

She had a craving. I had an itch. Can we help each other? she asked. I doubted it and said so. She told me her craving. I missed that boat.