black Xs and anarchist As spray-painted over the walls. A mangled chandelier lay at her feet. She heard music coming from upstairs, and chased the sound to the master bedroom. Two men in Guy Fawkes masks were tagging dicks on the wall. Metalcore blasted out of an iHome. She unplugged it.

“What’s going on?” she yelled.

Both men lifted their masks.

“The economy,” one said. They put on their masks. “Do you mind?” he growled, and pointed at the iHome.

She explored the house. It drawers and bedrooms were empty. The bathroom mirrors were cracked. The couches were shorn, stuffing fluff all over the floor. As she returned to the car the sky opened up. Rain soaked her dress; the fabric sucked on her skin. She tore the Theo index card off the wheel, dropped it in the street, and drove back to Whitfield.

Kelly kicked me out in November. Her lover moved in. To save face I told her I found a studio across town, that I planned to stay for a while, but that night I hopped a redeye to Portland. Was I embarrassed? Yes and no. Kelly and I, we failed as a couple. And I’m grateful for that. With her I learned that love doesn’t mean what I thought it did. Love cannot conquer all. It is not a perfect, eternal connection, but simply being what somebody needs. Kelly needed a lunk, a man double my size who did pull-ups in doorjambs. A man with guns on his neck. Me? I was too emotional. I was, ironic enough, the lover. And though I wasn’t what Kelly needed, I was — or would be — exactly what Julie was missing.

Julie was folding napkins at Raw when a man hurried past on the sidewalk. Had she seen him correctly? Cropped hair, the black smear of his glasses? She ran to the sidewalk. Greg was two blocks away. She untied her apron and carried it bunched in a ball, jogging, gaining a block, before slowing down to keep from getting too sweaty tktkt