I built up the courage to tell her she drove me crazy. She cooed, and kissed me. I mean you give me mental health issues, I said, twitching.

I never told her I didn’t love her. But she saw something in my body language. Or, perhaps, it was the t-shirt that read “I don’t love you.”

The goon punched me. The taste of metal filled my mouth. I’m still standing, I sang obnoxiously. And he punched me again. And then I wasn’t.

We leapt from roof to roof and somewhere, perhaps mid leap, we fell in love, or at least I did, and so I told her, and she fell to her death.

I’m allergic to all of your charms, I told her. She put down her spoon slowly. Sadly. And she undid the buttons on her shirt. And I sneezed.