“Let me show you.”
Mr. Sasaki scowled but grabbed an object from the receptionist’s desk and thrust it through the open window.
“One time chance!” he barked.
It was a personal-size pack of moist towelettes, the kind Miriam kept in her purse and pulled out at the movie theatre for wiping popcorn grease off our fingers. The pack was open, the “magic seal” sticker coiled into a tight, useless curl.
The fresh sting of the alcohol in my nose.
(Holding hands in the comfortable darkness.)
The fresh sting of the no.
I swallowed the delicious poison of the memory.
“Decorate,” Mr. Sasaki said, slamming down hard on the difficult “r.”
The pack crinkled in my grip. The words spilled out of me, poetry from the deeps: “Enjoy Your Surprise of Life!”
Mr. Sasaki smiled without looking happy. “You start as junior decorator. Monday.”

Returning home, as if anyone could live in that grief.
I understood heartbreak.
I was wrong when I thought

I was too young.
It was a crack of lightning breaking August heat.
It was radio static through my core.