That night I dream I’m in a room of corpses, all of them wearing dresses and lipstick, sitting stiffly on couches. It takes me a moment to realize they’re all my ex-girlfriends, their dead eyes glittering, their mouths barely moving as they whisper a list of my flaws. He kisses like a fish, says my kindergarten girlfriend, Michiko Ishii. We’d meet behind a fat oak tree on the playground, until we got caught by another girl who ratted us out. Her corpse is that of a very little girl; glassy eyes make her look like a doll.
He flirted with my friend, says the girl who ratted us out, Sofia Spiegel, who was technically also my girlfriend at the time.
He’s a liar, says a girl from Atlantic City. The one in the silver dress.
Such a liar, says my eighth-grade girlfriend. I didn’t tell her that
