Vic Pirello jabbed a bony finger at the radio presets, not caring where he landed on the FM dial.

“Dammit.”

The song had been following him. Every time he heard the muzak at the mall. In movie soundtracks. In commercials on T.V. At his friends houses. And, it seemed, every damn time he turned on his car stereo. The song was following him.

It had been what, fifty-four days since the breakup (not that he was counting) and that damned song would’t leave him alone. Wouldn’t let him get her face, her voice, out of his head. Wouldn’t let him forget the pale, faded scars hidden under clothes where nobody could see.

Except Vic had seen them, because she had let him. She had wanted him to see, and now he couldn’t get them out of his head. Because of that song.

What the hell kind of song talks about scars? Vic wondered. He wasn’t paranoid enough to think the song was written about her. For him. Not yet, anyway. But it was hard not to wonder.

“Yeah, it’s you, baby. It’s you.”