She’s right; this would make a killer book, Elvis says. The two of you have been pulled over by a cop and are waiting for Officer Dickhead to finish running your license. Elvis holds up one of the fotos.
She’s Colombian, you say.
He whistles. Que viva Colombia. Hands you back the Book. You really should write the cheater’s guide to love.
You think?
I do.
It takes a while. You see the tall girl. You go to more doctors. You celebrate Arlenny’s Ph.D. defense. And then one June night you scribble the ex’s name and: The half-life of love is forever.
You bust out a couple more things. Then you put your head down.
The next day you look at the new pages. For once you don’t want to burn them or give up writing forever.
It’s a start, you say to the room.
That’s about it. In the months that follow you bend to the work, because it feels like hope, like grace — and because you know in your lying cheater’s heart that sometimes a start is all we ever get.