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In fear for their life, my testicles scream at me in no uncertain terms that I shouldn’t make that observation aloud. Instead, I start to toss out rationalizations like a nervous zookeeper might toss raw meat into the alligator moat, hoping to pacify all the snapping, ravenous teeth. “It’s not like I could waltz into the fleabag motel and interrupt your planning! Knock, knock, who’s there, it’s your kinda-sorta boyfriend who you keep runnin’ out on! Hey, look, shiny object, you don’t have to hit the museum after all!” “That’s exactly what you could’ve done!” she retorts hotly, steam billowing from her ears. “You ran out on me!” “You crossed an ocean to find me!” “You needed time to miss me!” She rears back with an expression of shock and horror, like I just shoved a big, rotting rat
- Writer
