I bit my lip when I saw you playing piano. I had made a promise to myself, the night before as I drank a bottle of wine and laughed at Bukowski in bed, that I was going to totally up-end my life like a ripped open railroad car. When I saw you, I knew just how I’d do it. And from there we went, stupid and in love, hands entwined, our lips sealed shut against each other, same beds, same nights, same days, same storms, same head trauma, same bottles of liquor, same books, same journals, same awful awful goodbye when we both knew it was over, we’d made a mess and there was no one to clean us up.

I told you that Clarence Hemingway fell in love with his wife’s voice before he ever saw her. I think it meant something, but who ever knows?