I just ended that one with the Hispanic boy. I’m always thinking,

sexually, mentally, physically, whatever, there’s an end,

and that makes it less. Just less. Even if it’s just

that one of you dies. It makes it less.

My last one, you know, he’d go down

stairs and play the piano, anytime he was happy,

or angry, or sad, or bored, or whatever, he’d go downstairs

to the piano, it was instead

of conversation. Which was fine,

because he was talented. He brought the baby

grand home from his parents.

Downstairs, the vibrations,

from that baby grand, were really something.

The neighbours were fine with the vibrations,

we got on well, both sides

and they just knew if he was playing the piano he was angry,

or happy, or sad, or bored, or whatever. You know pianos die,

eventually? You replace the hammers

and strings and keys and pedals, and the only thing left

is the shell. So economically, he brought the baby one

back from his parents. But no conversation, it took seventeen years

to figure that out. Well, ten. The other seven

I was just cruising. We stayed together

for the house depreciation. It was fine, he’s talented,

that’s part of the attraction. But a bad debt

is harder to get away from than a bad ex.

There’s always an end. Sexually,

mentally, physically. Whatever.