Ours is in many ways a suburban romance—its chipotle mayo texture; its penchant for a neon green lawn. IKEA lights our way onto the interstate like a burning bush.
     We rove through aisles of plastic trays: ice in the shape of unicorns! Planets! Vampires! Freud! Ice will make our condo a home!
     In my dream last night, I met my ex in a bookstore where there were no good books. In the dream he was a legless stump, hopping around on his torso. His eyeballs seemed to collide in their sockets. I could see he was in psychic pain.
     I clutched him and picked him up and he felt so small in my arms.
     I kept repeating, what happened, what happened to you, what happened.
     He kept saying it was okay, that he was okay, that it had happened in Gary, Indiana, but everything was okay now, that I could go on with my life.
     I hate when dreams are literal. In real life my ex was half-a-man in every way. I loved him that way. I still love him that way.
     I barely remember that houseboat we lived on. Just that the river was chemical green, just that the walls were covered in posters of bands I did not know.
     I am so genuinely proud of myself: a smart girl buying ice trays, doing what is smart.
     Come on Boyfriend, I say. Come on!
     We take off our sandals and hide ourselves inside the shower curtain's enormous sun: kissing, inhaling the sweetness of plastic.