Adrenaline has a bad memory, but it has its own advantages, as long as you’re not the one who’s left to live with the horrid details.

The amen chorus sounded glibly after the fatal argument.

Unfortunately, the aftermath was all that was left. The ancient jukebox in charge of the soundtrack of my life conquered my mind playing the only track by Harvey Danger that I’ll ever remember:

Put me in the hospital for nerves
and then they had to commit me
you told them all i was crazy
they cut my legs, now I’m an amputee,
god damn you.

This was my baptism.

My fatal attraction. The damn assassin. An act of aggression. An amputation.

I rested on what I hoped was my deathbed. I needed a good night’s sleep. I mean how could I avoid the appearances?

Everyone would know I was without her. I had to learn how to live again.

Maybe my answer was to give her a dose of her own medicine. Maybe I could save our relationship with a knowing smirk and some animalistic sex. Then I wouldn’t have to be a relational amputee.