Fallout (Crank 3)

meant to stay private, right?

She comes over to me, touches

my cheek. Still nothing to say?

Goddamn it, I hate when you just

stare at me like that. Her hand

jerks away and her eyes harden,

morgue-cold with anger. Fine.

Fuck you too, then. Take your shit,

get out, and don’t come back.

I can’t deal with this anymore.

She storms from the room, slams

the door so hard a picture rocks

off the dresser, falls to the floor.

WHAT, EXACTLY, DID I DO?

I mean, yeah, I told her, “Fuck you.”

But that was heat of the moment,

and I said I was sorry. I can’t

believe she has such a short fuse.

She’ll cool off and it will all be

fine, right? First things first.

I need a shower. The bathroom

is so Nikki—green and yellow

and messy and smelling of ginger.

The water heater is old and Nikki’s

shampoo-condition-and-shave

routine pretty well emptied it.

I am barely rinsed by the time

the H2O fades from lukewarm

to frigid. Any other day, I’d be

mad. Today, all I can do is laugh.