Maybe she’s blonde. Maybe she’s funny. Maybe she fits against his body like the perfect puzzle piece. Forget him. Throw away the carnations crushed between the pages of the dictionary. Rush to the bookshelf and grab your scrapbook, rip out the pages, your yearbook, too. Sweep photos off the desk, snatch them from their frames, never mind the cuts, the beads of blood. Rush to the fireplace, throw everything in, light a match. Watch the flames leap and crackle. Your face burns as you watch the paper coil, each piece twisting into black, into floating ash, disappearing up the chimney.
"Classic"
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