Melie and Ty broke up and got back together for the weekend so I threw a brunch. Hash browns and vegetables, coffee-but-black, hippie shit. The next day, the day when they broke up foreverforgood, alone again, I turned the oven up, high. Not even to clean it. I wish. Anyway, I didn’t know it then. But I’d left half of it, that meal, behind in there, warming, while we talked-like-normal the next room away. In case someone wanted more. 

Anyway, when I threw the blackened pan at the curb for the birds or the dump truck, I’m not sure which, my shoulders felt tight. I mean that I felt sorry. The pan struck the concrete with a clang—the sort of sound you feel. The sort of sound that passes through you, like a bat’s screech, like a fork sunk in a wall. Like the sort of thing that will go on forever.

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