My first boyfriend broke up with me via sticky note after eight months of dating.

Wanna break up?

We're better as friends than lovers.

I had to snatch the note out of Ray’s hand; he was afraid to show it to me. We were on the couch in his parents' living room, watching 8 1/2. A few minutes earlier we had been cuddling.

A few minutes of my quiet crying and his quiet consoling later (his parents were home and we didn’t want to make things weird) I found myself in a surreal scene, eating leftover high school graduation cake that Ray’s mom brought out for us while my heart was busy folding and ripping itself into a paper snowflake.

It's a weird break-up story, but it’s fitting for our weird relationship.

When Ray asked me out, I was a freshman in college in Boston, and he was a senior at my old high school in the suburbs. We'd been close friends for about a year.

Ray was short, 5'5'' ish, dark, thick, wavy hair and big, dark eyes. Stocky. He had this heavy way of walking, kind of like a character in an old Disney cartoon, and he was always fidgeting, softly snapping his fingers or crossing his arms. He grumbled out loud to himself. His voice had a deep, nasal tone that he loathed, but I thought was cute.

He was smart and darkly funny and stubborn. He loved and consumed movies more than anybody I'd ever known. He wanted to be a director. He was a talented actor. I remembered coming home from college to see him in the lead in the fall school play. I watched him kiss a girl on stage before I’d even gotten a chance to kiss him.

We shared a lot of firsts together -- we were each other's first relationship. First real kiss -- in my garage after our first date. We stumbled our way around the other bases on the couch in my living room, stopping short of going all the way. I wasn't ready; it was important to me to wait until it felt right.

We mostly communicated via AIM while I was at school. Before dating, we used to chat about our crushes, how hurt we felt when they ignored us. We probed the darker rooms of our psyches together, shared our most painful memories and secrets. While dating, we had a little less to complain about. After all, we had each other; we were supposed to be happy. We mostly traded hearts and I love yous.

In June, I sat through his long high school graduation ceremony. I posed for a picture with him afterwards. Our parents, meeting for the first time, smiled and made small talk. I was in town for the summer, and was all ready for summer romance.

I think it was maybe a week later that he handed me that note.

I cried harder than I thought I would -- definitely harder than he thought I would. I sobbed in the car as I pulled away from his house. He ran after my car. Not to catch up to me -- just to try to make me laugh.

Ray’s reasons for dumping me trickled out. He admitted he had never really loved me. He worried that if we stayed together much longer we’d have to get married. Plus, he was still obsessed with a girl from high school.

That should have been enough to end things permanently, but I was addicted to affection. We hung out again that summer. We hooked up again; I initiated it. He told me he wouldn't take me back, but it didn't matter -- I just wanted to feel wanted.

It didn't end when I went back to college for sophomore year. He went to school in a nearby city. When his roommate was out of town, I would take an hour-long T ride, an hour-long train ride, and a 15 minute bus ride to his dorm. He'd sneak me in past past his peers and we'd barricade ourselves in his warm little room all night, talking, cuddling, kissing, eating junk food.

I knew what he really wanted out of those visits. It wasn’t a secret. He explained it several different unappealing ways. A special connection we'd share forever. Practice for our next relationships. Closure. Each time I declined to go all the way, he'd physically turn away from me and ignore me. Then I'd sleep next to him in his twin bed and make the trek home the next day, feeling gross.

Over time, the visits became less frequent, and eventually stopped.

The next year, I happend to fall in love with a friend from school. A shy, sweet boy who I worked with. We made our relationship official the summer after my junior year.

Ray wasn't doing well. His own love life was stagnant. He pined after girls who avoided him. In his dark hours, he called himself hideous, unlovable, stupid for breaking up with me. He was lonely. He feared he would always be lonely. No amount of me trying to cheer him up or encourage him or console him had any effect.

For several months, Ray would jokingly, or so I thought, ask me whether or not I had gone all the way with my new boyfriend. I finally got fed up with him asking, and so I told him. Yes. It finally felt right.

I thought he would probably know that answer was coming, since he kept asking, but his reaction was unfathomable. He felt shocked and disgusted and betrayed. He sent me a long, horrible, angry Facebook message to that effect; I could barely read it, it hurt so much. And then he blocked me.

I was angry. So angry that Ray tried to make me feel ashamed for moving on.

Ray unblocked me after a while. He apologized. He asked to go back to the good old days before we dated, when we were best friends and talked all the time. Impossible. Things were too messy. Time had passed, but we were both still upset. I couldn’t stomach his complaints about his love life anymore. Our conversations became those of acquaintances -- mostly questions about work.

A couple of years went by. The messages became more infrequent. Then, he stopped messaging altogether.

It had been a year since he'd contacted me when I saw something unexpected pop up on my Facebook -- Ray is in a new relationship. I did a little stalking -- he was with a cute girl with silver hair who seemed crazy about him.

It's funny how years later, old, zombie feelings can rise up and bite you in the gut.

I thought about how close he and I once were, and how we had grown so far apart that I knew absolutely nothing about this girl.

We weren't lovers anymore, we weren't even friends anymore, and I realized that we were probably both better off for it.

I couldn’t resist saying something, so I sent him a little message of closure.

Duuuuuuude heard the news

Really happy for you

A little cliche sticky note of my own.

Eric Evan envies Edmund Earl; Edmund Earl’s elongated esophagus, Edmund Earl’s exquisite ears, Edmund Earl’s enchanting epiglottis, Edmund Earl’s enticing elbows, Edmund Earl’s exemplary eyebrows, Edmund Earl’s eggshell epidermis, Edmund Earl’s epic, extended eyelashes, Edmund Earl’s enormous, exuberant emerald eyes -- excellent, excellent, everything enviably excellent -- essentially, Edmund Earl’s entire earthly existence emanates extreme elegance. Edmund Earl’s extravagant English eyeglasses, Edmund Earl’s embroidered ensemble, even Edmund Earl’s earmuffs exemplify eloquence. Edmund Earl’s especially extraordinary.

Eric Evan, erstwhile? Eyesore. Extensive eczema envelops Eric Evan’s entire elbow. Evil, encroaching eczema erupting everywhere, evolving, encumbering Eric Evan, eroding Eric Evan’s essence. Eric Evan expects everyone else’s empathy.

Early every evening, Edmund Earl eats exotic, expensive entrees -- European elk, electric eel, elephant eyeball, Egyptian eggplant, ewe, emu; erstwhile, Eric Evan eats expired eggs. Eggs, eggs, eggs; every evening, eighteen eggs! Ew, embarrassing. Ergo, every evening, eating eighteen earthy embryonic expulsions, eyeing Edmund Earl’s elephantine entrees, Eric Evan explodes, envy erupting. Exacerbating eczema.

Edmund Earl’s engaged. Evelyn. Enchantress.

Eric Evan’s engaged. Eva. Eh.

Eva envies Evelyn’s engagement – Edmund Earl exceeds Eric Evan everywhere. Edmund Earl’s everything Eva ever envisioned – eye-catching, expressive, effusive, effortlessly erotic. Eric Evan? Egotistical, edgy, easily excitable.

Edmund Earl’s educated. Eric Evan’s expelled.

Edmund Earl’s employed -- electrical engineer. Edmund Earl’s employer, Eli Everette, empowers Edmund Earl, expecting excellence. Edmund Earl exceeds Eli’s every expectation. Edmund Earl’s erudite, experienced, enterprising, entrepreneurial, esteemed. Every employee emulates Edmund Earl. Edmund Earl earns extra.

Eric Evan’s employed. Eric Evan embalms expired elderly. Exciting. Eric Evan’s egregious errors enrage employers.

Edmund Earl exercises every evening, exuding endless energy.

Exercise excites Eric Evan’s eczema.

Edmund Earl enunciates English expertly. Edmund Earl’s extroverted, effervescent, engaging. Edmund Earl enjoys Europop. Edmund Earl enriches everyone else’s existence. Edmund Earl enchants, Edmund Earl excites, Edmund Earl, Edmund Earl, Edmund Earl, everyone exclaims! Emulate Edmund Earl! Emulate Edmund Earl! Elect Edmund Earl emperor!

Eliminate Edmund Earl! Eliminate! Eliminate! Execute Edmund Earl. End Edmund Earl.

END EDMUND EARL.

Eric Evan’s envisioning ending Edmund Earl. Erasing Edmund Earl’s entire existence. Elbowing Edmund Earl’s eyeballs, extensively. Exploding Edmund Earl. Embalming Edmund Earl. Earth engulfing Edmund Earl. Enticing. Extreme.

Enough! Enough. Enough.

Eric Evan exhales, exhausted. Elation ebbs. Eric Evan eats eggs.

My older sister Carla was supposed to be babysitting me.

She’s in high school, she just got her braces off and figured out how to stick contacts in her eyes, but she's bad at putting on her Proactiv so she’s got lots of zits. I can say all that because I’m her sister. Just like how I can say she has hair on her toes and her boobs are different sizes.

Also, she likes to shower with the door open so everyone can hear her bad singing more clearly. That’s not really relevant, but it’s a fun fact.

Anyway, Carla is 16 and has never been laid, and she thinks that’s a really big deal. She was really hoping to get laid with our neighbor, Tommy, according to her diary. She and Tommy had been best friends since before I was born. They learned how to ride bikes together, and I guess used to take bubble baths together, according to my mom. To be honest, I wouldn’t want to get laid with someone I took a bath with. That’s just creepy.

Anyway Tommy used to look goofy but he turned into a good-looking kid with shiny hair and played on the tennis team at school. Somehow, through some kind of tennis connections, he ended up dating a college girl with much better boobs than my sister. And once you do good boobs, you can’t really go back, so I’ve heard.

That was the worst week of my life, when he started dating Tennis Boobs. Carla locked herself in our room all day and played the boring Coldplay songs and cried. I was like, hey, can I get into our room? I left my Game Boy in there. And she was like NO! So I couldn’t even play Donkey Kong.

Anyway, I’m getting off track here.

Carla was interested in this new guy at school named Zach. He was kind of a loner, a brooding type, which is sexy, according to her diary. She called him a Bad Boy, but Carla’s idea of Bad Boy is a guy that plays Dungeons & Dragons in the state park after the sun goes down. He wore cargo pants and hoodies and smelled kind of Bad, but I guess he did have nice hair.

Anyway, about 15 minutes after mom left for her date, Carla came bounding into our room holding her phone up for me to see.

“He asked me out. He wants to go out. Oh my GOD!” she said, shaking the phone up and down in my face. I couldn’t read it when she was jiggling it up and down like that, but I saw a lot of exclamation points from her side of the conversation. God, she was already ruining it.

“Congratulations,” I said, “Maybe now you’ll finally get laid.”

Carla stopped bouncing and looked at me.

“What? I don’t care about-- that,” she said. “I just want to have a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And anyway, you shouldn’t be talking like that. You’re way too young.”

She typed on her phone, frantically. She paused, the phone dinged, and she looked up at me in awe.

“He wants to see a movie at the drive-in tonight.”

“You’re babysitting me.”

“I know, I know.” She flopped on the bed. “But what if this is it -- what if this is my only shot? What if he thinks I don’t like him and moves on to Heidi or something?”

Uh oh. Heidi had better boobs.

“I like movies,” I said.

“This movie is rated R,” she said, as if that was a big deal.

“So? Nobody cares.”

“You’re 10 years old.”

“You’re 16, technically you can’t see it either.”

“So, I can’t just… that’s not… you’re… I’m.... UGH! I’m not bringing you on my date!”

“I’ll hide in the back seat and play games, he’ll never even know I’m there.”

“What if you just stay here, alone, for a couple of hours?”

“What if I call mom?”

Carla narrowed her eyes at me. Then she was typing again.

“Alright. Whatever. But if you ruin this for me--”

I held out my pinky for a pinky swear. “I promise I’ll be good.”

15 minutes later I was sitting in the very back seat of our mom’s SUV as Carla drove across town to pick up Zach. She was nervous, and a bad driver, so she was swerving everywhere and I wanted to throw up.

She stopped to pick up Zach from his house, hitting the curb when she pulled the car over. We were definitely on the creepy side of town -- his front yard was overgrown with weeds and there was a fenced-in backyard full of barking dogs -- big, fat, cranky ones.

“Get down, he’ll see you!”

Carla was spreading another layer of make-up over her zits, kneading her skin like she was making Christmas cookies. It was getting dark outside, but it was still about 90 degrees, and her face was extra shiny and her hair was extra frizzy. The sight of herself in the rearview mirror was making her stressed, which made her neck all red. She was a hot mess, as they say.

Zach came brooding out of his front door, banging the screen door behind him, tossing his golden bangs. Carla inhaled sharply, nervous. I ducked down.

Zach opened the side of the van and slid into the back seat, one seat in front of me.

“I told my parents you were an Uber driver,” he explained to Carla. "They don't trust teenagers."

“Oh,” she said, “Cool. Um…Gotcha.”

I heard her fumbling around with the gear shift as though she’d forgotten how it worked. But eventually she pulled herself together and the car started rolling.

It was really quiet and weird for a few minutes, so I peeked up. Zach was looking at his phone -- I could tell from the way his head was lowered.

“Nice night,” Carla said.

Zach looked up. “What?”

“Oh I just said, "Nice night," because it’s probably what an Uber driver would say. So it’s like, kind of funny because that’s what I’m pretending to be.”

Oh my god, Carla, just shut up and make kissy faces in the mirror, that’s all this guy wants.

“Oh, hah,” he said, looking back down at his phone.

This was not going well.

We got to the drive-in and Carla tuned the radio to the right station for the movie, trying to make small talk. Something about science class, something about lunch, something about Heidi. It all felt so forced and dumb. After a few minutes, Zach went to go get some popcorn from the concession stand while a smiling hot dog danced on the big screen.

I popped up to say hi to Carla.

“Hey,” I said, “How are things going?”

Carla turned back to look at me, furious. “Get down!”

I didn’t.

“We had an arrangement!” she snarled.

“Are you having fun?”

Carla glared at me, motioning for me to get down, flapping her hand.

I couldn’t really watch the movie, because I had to hide, but it was a horror movie. I could tell because of all the shrill violin music and screaming. Something about a guy who goes to a hotel with a lady and she turns out to be a demon or something.

It had been quiet for a while, so I peeked up over the seat.

Carla and Zach were holding hands! Plot twist!

I ducked back down and played some more Donkey Kong, surprised that things were going that well. Maybe Carla had some game after all.

I heard them talking to each other in low whispers -- and then different sounds started. Muffled, slippery sounds. Sure enough, when I peeked up again, they were sucking face, really going at it. Or at least trying to -- neither of them seemed very good at it. They both had their eyes squeezed really tight, like they were trying to focus.

Ew.

I noticed a light on the back seat and looked down -- Zach’s phone was lighting up with messages. They were both so occupied, I couldn’t help myself. I reached around and snagged the phone, wanting to see what kind of bet he lost to end up in this situation.

I looked at his messages.

A bunch of random numbers -- no names. And they were all sending him one word.

Faggot.

Faggot.

Ur a fuckin’ FAGGOT.

Hmmm. I tried to remember what that word meant.

I heard Carla’s voice again -- she was whispering.

“Um, maybe we shouldn’t -- there’s people… around.”

“It’s dark in here, no one will see.”

“Yeah... Okay.”

I peeked up.

Zach was in the process of lifting Carla’s shirt off her body. It was getting stuck up around her head. Oh man. They were really going for it. I kind of couldn't help but watch.

“Um, maybe--” she said, muffled.

“It’s okay. Just relax.”

His hand was shaking and he reached for his pants pocket. He patted his pocket -- something was missing.

He looked around on the ground for it, looked toward the back seat, and he saw --

My face lit up by his phone.

“What the FUCK?!”

Zach scrambled backwards, fumbling for the car door. Carla shot up -- she couldn’t really see 'cause of all the shirt bunched around her head.

She sounded panicked. “What? What, what is it? Are they that bad?”

Zach got the door open and fell out onto the pavement.

“Zach!” Carla finally got her shirt down. “Did I do something?”

“There’s a fucking -- child -- in your car!” he spat, pointing at me.

Carla looked back at me. I waved, nervous. She sighed.

“It’s just Izzy, my sister. I was babysitting her and--”

“And you brought her here? What the FUCK?”

“Stop swearing!”

“Stop swearing?!! That’s what you’re fuckin' worried about?!”

A couple of car lights were coming on, people checking out the commotion. On screen, a creepy naked woman was crawling down a hallway towards us.

Zach looked at the screen and screamed.

Then he pinched the top of his nose and took a few deep breaths.

“I’m going home,” he said, finally.

“Should I drive you or--”

“No. I'm -- I'm sorry."

He flipped up the hood on his sweatshirt, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked towards the road. 

Carla sat, her hands gripping the wheel tightly, staring straight ahead.

She didn’t say anything for a long time. And then she let out a long, shaky breath.

“Sorry,” I said.

She shook her head.

“It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have…” She shook her head again.

I crawled up into the front seat so I could get a better look at her. Her foundation was runny, her eye stuff smeared, her lipstick rubbed off. And there were little tears sneaking out of her eyes. She brushed them away.

I put a hand on her shoulder and she leaned her head down and started to blubber, the way kids do when they hurt themselves and someone comes over to comfort them.

I whispered:

“If it makes you feel any better, I think maybe he was homosexual.”

She sniffed.

“What?”

“Everyone was calling him a bad word. I think that’s what it means.”

“What?”

“I mean he probably doesn’t like any boobs, not just yours.”

I held out his phone so she could see the messages.

We caught up with Zach as he was walking home, his fists still in his pockets, his face all scrunched up and red. It was starting to rain -- a summer thunderstorm. Really coming down. 

Carla pulled over and rolled down her window.

“Hey, get in,” she said, “We need to talk.”

Zach kept walking. Carla kept the car moving.

“I know what you were trying to do,” Carla said. “Please.”

Zach looked at both of us. He looked like he might just keep going. But then he stopped.

He opened the back door and got in.

They didn’t talk, not really. Instead they both just sat there in the dark car, each of them brushing their faces every few moments and sniffing and breathing heavy. It was taking so long that I took out my Game Boy and played a few levels of DK.

“I’m hungry," I said.

We went out to the 24-hour McDonald's drive-thru for fries and shakes, and ate everything in the car. Mom was going to be so pissed about the crumbs.

Before we dropped him off, I reached back to give Zach his phone.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You're welcome. Block those guys, they’re fucking punks,” I said.

His eyebrows shot up.

"Uh... Thanks."

“And don’t worry,” I said, “I already knew the word "fuck.""

Myrna is 84 years old, five feet tall, silver hair, bad knees, never married.

I was surprised when she asked me to be her maid of honor.

We’re not related. I’m her rabbit-walker.

Her pet rabbit, Monty, is extremely obese. Myrna overfeeds him. Every day around noon I come to her house in West Hollywood, clip a pink collar around the silky white fluff on his neck, and coax him around the block. Poor bun is so heavy he can’t even hop, I have to nudge him forward with my foot. It takes about an hour. That’s my career right now. Poking and prodding chubby little animals down sweaty Los Angeles sidewalks.

Myrna told me about her impending wedding a few months ago, showing off the ring on her finger as she handed me my check.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” I asked.

“His name is Tom,” she said, “I met him at the senior center.”

She asked me about the maid of honor gig casually, slipped it into conversation while she bounced Monty on her lap and poked a carrot between his wriggling lips.

“What about your friends?” I asked.

“Dead,” she said, waving a hand.

“Oh. Sorry. All of them?”

“Yep.”

“And your family? Any nieces or cousins or...”

“Dead.”

“Oh...I’m sorry.”

“Nah, just kidding, they’re alive. I just hate them.”

I stood quietly, rubbing my thumb over my check, thinking it all over, trying to refuse without seeming impolite. Last time I was in a wedding party, the bride peed on my hand a little as I was holding her dress so she could use the toilet. And there was no soap in the dispensers in the hotel bathroom.

“C’mon,” she said, snapping me out of my memory. “You look like you know how to party.”

I looked down at my grimy sneakers. I pictured the tattoo on top of my left foot-- the most painful location to get a tattoo, which teenage me thought was real hardcore. A big red heart and the name Sheldon.

Finally, I looked up and smiled at Myrna. “Okay.” And that was that.

I took Myrna wedding dress shopping a week later at the David’s Bridal on Pico Boulevard. She wanted something really unwieldy and eye-catching, which meant I spent hours hooking and zipping and pinching and shimmying scratchy, puffy white material over the constellation of moles on her back. Myrna wasn’t modest -- she stripped down in the middle of the store, seeming to enjoy the attention of the other scandalized brides-to-be.

Myrna paid $7000 for her wedding dress and my hot pink bridesmaid dress without batting an eyelash. Just rifled through her overstuffed wallet and handed the smiling cashier a sleek black credit card.

Afterwards, we went for fro-yo and ate it in the car on the way back to her house.

“So, $7000 dollars,” I said. “That’s a lot.”

“Is it?” she asked, mid-lick. “I’m an old woman. Never married. No kids. Healthy pension. The fuck do I care?”

I shrugged.

“You ever been married?” she asked me.

“God, no.”

“Ever come close?”

“No. God, no.”

“You a lesbian?”

“No.”

“Because just to let you know, if you were a lesbian, you could marry a lady. It was on the news the other night.”

“Yeah I know. I’m not, but thanks.”

“Hey, I get it, men are scum,” she said, practically spitting out the word. “That’s why I never bother getting married until now.”

“I’m sure I’ll find someone,” I said.

“Eh,” she said, licking her spoon clean.

That night I went home to my apartment. Actually, it’s the apartment that belongs to my friend Angela and her husband Tony. Angela’s pregnant -- sorry, Angela AND Tony are pregnant -- which means my room will soon become the baby’s bedroom. They’ve already painted it pastel green and set up the crib, and now Angela’s hovering at my doorway with an encouraging smile, holding up her laptop to show off a Craigslist listing for a 2-bedroom apartment in Culver City that’s shared by three college-aged men, all named Rick.

“It’s so cute,” Angela says. “They describe themselves as short Rick, tall Rick, and fat Rick. And they’re all in film school.”

“Adorable,” I said.

“You would share a room with short Rick. He’s the cutest. Look.”

I groaned and rolled over so I faced the window.

“Honey,” Angela said.

“I’m looking at places. God, just give me some space.” I buried my face in my pillow.

I heard Angela snickering and rolled back over to face her.

“Love you, baby,” Angela said, turning to leave, switching off the light. A million little glow-in-the-dark stars they stuck to the walls and ceilings peppered my vision.

“Love you too.”

I kicked off my shoes.

A few weeks later, I helped Myrna send out wedding invites -- she wanted someone with a “young, fresh tongue” to lick the envelopes.

I scratched between Monty’s ears, plopped down at the kitchen table and pulled a stack of the invitations toward me.

“Who’s that?” I asked, looking down at the glossy picture of Myrna hugging a ruggedly gorgeous 20-something with a little poof of a man bun hugging the top of his head.

“Tom,” Myrna said, pointing to his name in purple cursive hovering over his head and tapping it with her fingernail. “Duh.”

“Wait… Your Tom?”

“Yeah! He designed these himself. Little basic if you ask me, but he was proud.”

“I thought you met Tom at the senior center.”

“I did. He’s the water aerobics instructor.”

Ugh. I pictured Tom, fuzzy-chested, clad in a speedo, cradling a spandex-clad Myrna in his arms and spinning her around in the shallow section of a pool.

I shut my eyes, tried to find something to say to her that wasn’t insulting.

“That’s great,” I said.

“Isn’t he a looker?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

I Facebook-stalked Tom that night. His page was mostly private, save for a few shirtless pictures and mountain landscapes, but there was no trace of Myrna or their relationship. He had a German Shepherd named Spaetzle that he liked to take on him with hikes. He brewed his own beer. He’s been to Coachella at least once. He had 743 friends.

I felt like I was indirectly assisting in some sort of criminal plot. Obviously this dude was taking advantage of Myrna. Myrna, the little old lady who dropped $7000 on a wedding dress, has lived in the same house since 1967 and takes her pet rabbit to the groomer every Wednesday.

But it wasn’t really my business. She wasn’t my grandma. He seemed to make her happy. What was the point of pointing out a scam this late in the game?

Besides, what the hell did I know about love? About marriage? Maybe they were actually happy together.

I planned Myrna’s bachelorette party for the weekend before her wedding. She didn’t want to invite anyone else -- just the two of us. She wanted something fun and wild-- a night to remember.

I decided to take her to a dueling piano bar; I went on a pretty adequate date there a few years back. She came out of her house wearing a sequined miniskirt and a tank top. Her lips painted bubblegum pink. “We’re going to the club, right?” she asked, striking a pose. I smiled.

Later, Myrna downed a peach martini at the piano bar in one long sip.

“When do they put up the poles?” she asked, burping.

“It’s not that kind of place.”

Myrna looked shocked.

“You took me to a regular old fuddy duddy bar for my bachelorette party?”

“It’s not regular, they’ve got live piano music. And you can request songs.”

Up on stage, a pianist was banging out an impassioned cover of Don’t Stop Believing.

Myrna rolled her eyes.

“God, and I thought I was the old woman.” Myrna set her glass down.

“I’m done. C’mon, let’s go find a real club.”

She slid off her chair and marched toward the door. I left a few twenties on the table and followed, grumbling.

We teetered down Sunset Boulevard, my low heels clacking next to Myrna’s bejeweled flats. She turned right into the skeeziest club I’d ever seen, dim and dank and cloudy with smoke. She brushed past the bouncer like she owned the place.

Myrna started dancing as soon as she crossed the threshold, shaking her hips, jiggling her arms, swinging her Vera Bradley purse around, grinding up on men and women, plucking drinks right out of their hands and tossing them back.

“Never take the girl’s drinks, they could be drugged. Saw it on Dateline NBC,” she yelled into my ear.

I felt nauseous. The staccato of EDM and drunken shouts and cheers as blood pumped through my head was driving me mad. I had a few drinks in me, and I hadn’t been in a club like this since I was 18. “Myrna, I think we should go. I’m not...really...comfortable.” But Myrna was burrowing herself into a throng of hip millennials.

Myrna shimmied backwards and bumped into a young, passionate couple-- their hands all over each other, their heads pressed together, their eyes closed.

The impact broke their trance and they looked at us.

“Tom!” Myrna shouted. And the music seemed to stop.

I’d recognize that man bun anywhere.

Tom gently pushed his dancing partner away, guilty. She glommed onto another man in one fluid motion and kept dancing, swinging her long, dark hair around.

“Myrna.”

Tom was wearing a sweaty gray v-neck. His hair looked greasy. His face was flushed. His nostrils flared.

He was holding a sweating glass of beer in his hand. Not knowing what else to do, he buried his face in it.

Myrna turned to me, beaming.

“Liza, this is my fiance, Tom. Tom, Liza. She walks Monty.”

“How do you um, how do you do?” Tom sputtered, wiping away the condensation on his lip and holding his hand out for me to shake.

I stared down at the hand, then up at his stupid, gorgeous, chiseled face.

I felt something bubbling, starting in my toenails and shooting up to my teeth. I bared them at Tom.

Then I took his outstretched hand and grabbed his elbow with my other hand and yanked him down hard so he torpedoed face-first to the floor. He hit hard and tumbled like a rag doll, pin-balling off of dancing people’s shins.

He clutched his crushed nose, blood seeping through his fingers.

“Flllurrck!” he gargled, barely audible over the bass drop. “You brrgghhlitch!”

Myrna looked up at me, shocked, her drawn-on eyebrows hugging her hairline.

“Run,” Myrna demanded, pushing me back towards the door.

We scrambled a few blocks away from the bar into a tiny, dirty alleyway, hid behind a dumpster, caught our breath, and then I got us a Lyft home. Rhonda, the Lyft driver, eyed us in her rear-view mirror, suspicious. We were an odd couple if there ever was one.

Myrna looked over at me and grinned. She patted my leg and leaned toward me.

“Well, guess the wedding’s off.”

I sighed. “Men are scum,” I said, flexing my hand. “I can’t believe he cheated on you like that.”

“Oh, I don’t care about that,” she said. “But I think you ruined his lovely face.”

She squeezed her nose and grinned.

“I can’t marry a man with a busted up honker.”

I tilted my head, confused. Not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“So you’re not upset. At all?”

She shook her head.

“Nah. I was only ever in it for the arm candy. Easy enough to find in this town.”

I blinked at her in disbelief. She smiled and leaned toward me again.

“But someone who would do that for me, what you just did, that’s rare.”

She squealed and patted my cheek. “Thank you, my girl. For all of it.”

I was too confused to reply. I kept searching her face for a hint, a sign of weakness, of sadness, of anger, of vulnerability, and I only saw love.

"Ugh, I'm drunk," she announced, leaning back in her seat.

"Me too," I said, "And my feet are killing me." I kicked off my shoes.

Then Myrna looked down at my foot and squinted at my heart tattoo.

“Sheldon. Who’s Sheldon?” she asked. “An ex?”

“My old pet rabbit.”

And we busted up laughing the rest of the way home.

I’ll tell you how I died, but you have to promise not to laugh. I’m serious.

I was living alone in a tiny apartment in Allston, Massachusetts -- I was living alone because my boyfriend, Gary, just left me. I know what you’re picturing: some big, millennial brawl where we threw our IKEA flatware at each other and set fire to each other’s laundry baskets while I screamed, “Who is she?! Who is she?!”

I wish. That feels like an ending worthy of a long-winded relationship.

Instead, I came home from work one day and he was gone.

His stuff was gone too -- no trace of him left to burn except the couch he dragged in from the street corner a month before (the couch with the weird, dark red splotch that could’ve been spilled wine, but was probably blood).

It felt like a game. Like an Easter egg hunt. Like I’d find all his stuff hidden in the dark corner at the back of the closet or in the cabinet under the sink or behind the dumpster in the alley.

He changed his number. Deleted Facebook. His emails bounced.

He must have had his best buddy, Todd, come by, while I was out. Must’ve loaded up Todd’s dingy white pick-up with his X-box and flannel shirts and driven off into the sunset.

They were probably at Todd’s college, cracking open beer bottles with undergrad cleavage, or whatever it is 26-year-old toddler men do.

Anyway, enough about them. They were out of my life. Losers.

I was living alone.

Single for the first time since senior year of college and determined to enjoy it.

I wanted to whip myself into shape, to scrub off those soft layers that piled on from all our nights ordering in. I wanted to sculpt myself into a bullet, bold and sleek and ready to crash through new apartments and beds unharmed.

I made myself a lean, mean shrimp scampi with zucchini noodles.

It was so good, I shoveled it down my throat. I shoveled so much of it down my throat at once that a large chunk of shrimp blocked my airway.

And then I died. On my coffee table. Trying to give myself the Heimlich.

I died on a pile of trashy grocery-store-checkout-line magazines with tips on plumping up my flat butt and faking cheekbones with bronzer.

I died with QVC on in the background on mute; it was comforting -- the bright colors and white smiles, the confidence that buying this cowl/scarf/skirt/leg-warmer would make your sorry life bearable.

I died with a hamper overstuffed with sweaty sports bras, three overdue cable bills, $42,365 in deferred student loan debt, four missed calls from my mother and a perfectly portioned triple-layer chocolate mousse chilling in the fridge (that I would never eat).

I blamed Gary.

The only real benefit to being a ghost (and there are many downsides: you’re always cold, you’re always tired, you’re always hungry but you can’t eat) is that you can pop across any distance just by thinking about where you’re going.

The bad news is -- popping drains your energy. The more energy you store up, the more you can interact with the living world. The less energy you have, the more invisible you are. The best way to store energy is to sit still and charge up.

That’s why the only ghost sightings you hear about are creepy 18th century women in frilly nightgowns – they’re just old homebodies.

First, I wanted to visit my parents and watch my demise bring them together to sob on each other’s shoulders. That’s what divorced parents are supposed to do when their only child dies tragically, right? Put aside their differences and mourn together.

Instead, they were quiet, distant. Maybe shocked, maybe just embarrassed that they put so much effort into raising a daughter who choked to death on an ocean spider. They stood on opposite ends of the church, like different parties at a wedding.

When the funeral was over, and the rest of my stuff was carted out of my apartment, they went their separate ways. They even deleted each other’s names out of their cells, like teenagers.

Dad went back to his girlfriend and mom moved to a retirement community in Florida, even though she hadn’t even hit 60.

By the way, Gary didn’t even bother going to my funeral. Ass.

I popped back to the Allston apartment, because it felt right. When you die somewhere, you have a special connection to it. It feels like a childhood Christmas eve at home-- all cozy and meaningful.

Growing up, before my parents divorced, we didn’t have a fireplace, but we put the Yule Log on our TV and cranked the thermostat up as high as it would go. I’d swaddle myself in scratchy blankets on the sofa and crunch down on supermarket sugar cookies and read flowery Santa Claus origin stories and feel so warm and peaceful.

That’s how that ratty apartment felt to me now. It was a place of rest and restoration. It was powerful.

I spent a few days on my own, relaxing. And then -- a couple moved in.

They were older – must’ve been in their 60’s – too old to be sharing an apartment this cruddy. From what I could tell, they both just left their spouses for each other. And they couldn’t be friggin’ happier about it.

Lydia and Sam. Lydia was edgy, dressed in flowing black clothing, wore obnoxious perfume and painted pictures of naked women. Sam was sensitive and soulful and sang in a bluegrass cover band.

I hated them.

I hated the way they cooked dinner together. I hated the way Sam burned the salmon and Lydia still ate it and pretended it was delicious. I hated the way that burned salmon made my place smell like a fish market for weeks. I hated that my sense of smell was still functional.

I hated the way they danced together without music playing. I hated the way they brushed their teeth together, and clipped their toenails together, and I even hated the way they both went about their own business and looked up every once in a while to blow each other a kiss.

But the worst part was when they were intimate.

I tried to leave as soon as they started undressing, but I was still too weak to pop away. So I stood in the kitchen, as far away as I could get from the bedroom, and tried to drown out their moans and grunts with my own loud thoughts.

Eventually, I mustered my strength and turned on their blender.

Sam came running out of the bedroom, half-naked, wielding an acoustic guitar by its neck like a sword. “Who’s there?” he shouted over the whirring.

Lydia pushed him aside. She headed straight for the kitchen and shut off the blender, no nonsense.

“Must’ve been a power surge or something.”

She looked right at me as she said it. Could she see me?

I decided I wanted them out.

Seeing them together made my blood boil, and I’m not sure I even have blood anymore. Whatever was boiling, it probably wasn’t good for my health.

I thought I knew how to scare them away. But every time I turned on the microwave or shut off the TV, they thought it was faulty wiring. When I smacked down picture frames of their grandchildren, they thought I was a rat.

I thought it might be easier to freak them out at night in their bedroom (I’ve watched a lot of horror movies). So one night, I gently eased open their door and wandered in.

I saw them tangled together on the bed together in a shaft of moonlight. Like something out of a dream. Fast asleep, soft smiles on their faces. Breathing in tandem.

They looked so damn peaceful.

Gary and I never slept like that.

We slept like my parents did the year before they announced their divorce – bookending the bed. I know I’m a sweaty sleeper, but still.

I decided it was finally time to visit Gary.

I felt strong enough.

I found him in another small apartment bedroom – one I didn’t recognize – with a view across the Charles toward Allston. It was quiet, save for the hum of the heater and the occasional breath of a passing car.

Gary was sitting on the side of the bed in an undershirt, nipping at his fingernails. He did that when he was nervous. Bad habit.

I walked toward him, put my hand on his cheek.

I gathered every ounce of energy I had, every bit of affection for him I ever felt, and I made myself appear.

His eyes widened. He didn’t scream.

“Abby?” he asked.

I looked down at him. Really looked at him. I couldn’t say anything, but I tried.

“Abby…”

I held it as long as I could. I wanted it to be real.

And then I faded, I was invisible again.

Gary started crying-- big, ugly sobs.

A lump under the covers beside him stirred.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Todd said, emerging.

He sat up in bed and wrapped his arms around a trembling Gary.

“Shh, it’s okay.”

Gary leaned back into Todd, they pressed their foreheads together. Almost… romantic.

Oh.

“I saw Abby,” Gary said to Todd. “She looked terrible.”

Jesus. Can’t I ever catch a break?

“It’s just a bad dream. It’s gonna be okay.”

Gary looked back over at me, questioning.

I nodded.

He closed his eyes and leaned into Todd. Sank back into bed with him.

I felt my blood turn to flat soda, the hate and anger drain away, and I waited for the light...

No light yet. Guess I might have another lesson to learn.

I tried to pop back home, but I was too weak. So I walked. As I crossed the city, I saw other loners – maybe humans, maybe just their ghosts -- scrolling on their phones for comfort.

I had always known, I think. I should’ve been the first to leave.

The next time I save up some energy, I think I’ll pop down to Florida and visit mom.

What a sad life, to be the lone orange Skittle at the bottom of the plastic pumpkin candy bowl. Slightly squished, her brittle skin cracked, her insides tasteless and dried.

She’d been there since the boy was four. She lay buried while he picked out all the Hershey’s and the Reese’s and those peanut M&M’s -- the good stuff, he said -- working his way down to the lollipops and licorice.

Every Halloween, she hoped maybe he’d notice. He’d reach the bottom of the bowl, shove a sticky finger inside and pry her from her prison. But every year she stayed hidden under Twizzlers until it was too late -- and the pumpkin was returned to the dark hall closet.

This morning I woke for work

And missed you.

You were sprawled out next to me

Breathing deep, creased sheets

The city still asleep, quiet streets, 

Too dark to see

So I closed my eyes again...

And the rest of my life came to me in sheets

I flipped through days and nights and dreams

Until there was nothing

And then there was--

Nothing?

Except memory, lingering.

The smell of strong coffee, your fingers tracing me

A million different smiles, Sunday drives, mac and cheese,

sunny strolls, guitar strums, whispers, screams,

smoke breaks, sobs, hospital hallways

Draining from me.

I’m up again. You lie still. Here.

I shouldn’t dwell on such things-- 

And yet they like to dwell on me, at night they build their nest

And multiply and scream and weigh down my chest

I can’t breathe. I can’t

Breathe.

Don’t, don’t leave.

Life goes on, they all say, as though that helps.

That just means

There's so much you won't get to see.

What I wouldn’t give for our bodies to be wheels

That keep turning, gears grinding together and moved

By the Earth beneath our feet, connecting, spinning--

Stirring.

I feel the stunning loss already, the arms of sunlight

Dragging me into the day

And holding me.