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filled my head. I had met Johnny at a party underneath a fire escape. The hipster girls whispered warnings my direction. Johnny was local, an art school dropout living on the dole. He painted my dancing silhouette on brick buildings, colored red to garages, pressed my movements to back entrances of rooming houses. The sun wouldn’t go down until 10. We stole a bottle of La Fin Du Monde, and raced back to my house, over cracked pavement, up rickety stairs to my room. He kissed me on an egg-crate, atop wooden boards. He told me he was going to Italy with the Vietnamese man he’d met on the streets of San Francisco. I smashed the bottle we were sipping from, shattered lamps. He howled and cracked mirrors. The house creaked and swayed. We slept that night on a bed our destruction had made, our limbs stuck together by blood our cuts let run. He mumbled in his sleep, warning me of the red ants marching through his dreams. In the morning, he drew our three week history of broken glass, colored it, and folded it into his suitcase. I tore our pictures and burned his drawings. He went to Italy and caught rubella. 41

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5x5 Issue 2 Summer, 2014: Nostalgia  

5x5 Issue 2 Summer, 2014: Nostalgia  

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