Her face was awful

but it didn’t matter. He’d screwed worse. He just needed anyone. Who would. Who. Oh, anyone. Her.

And besides she had better CDs.
He liked that.
Everyone noticed.

And when she threw him out.
They noticed that too.
They said, “Man she had—”
“I know.”
“Just saying she really—”
“Thanks.”

Later, in EAST Brooklyn.

You can smell the onions from the apartment below at 6pm every night. We’re not usually there. We’re usually still at work. But it’s happening. The onion odors come up between the walls. They are little particles too small to measure. But they go up your nose. It only takes one or two. You’ll be walking across the street to that Middle Eastern place at 7pm. And it won’t be the same as what you imagined. When you smelled the onions from your neighbors’.

They don’t just have onions. They have other things. They have a routine. They have each other. My anxiety doesn’t allow me a routine. It says, “No you can’t” and “Try this instead.” I throw pills at it. They scatter on the floor. Maybe they are not the right pills. Maybe if I had better CDs?

“I hate gmail’s new interface.”
“Enough to kill someone?”
[pause]
“Imagination is better than real.”
“Yes.”
“Ever since.”
“Ever since.”
“I’m sorry I threw you out.”
“Thanks.”
“But you were such a bad person.”
“Thanks.”
“Really. But now that you’re out I can help you.”
“Thanks.”
“Here are some CDs.”