I once knew a girl who’d been smothered with a pillow by her lover. It was the same old story, jealousy of this or another. He didn’t get far and she lived, but she became afraid of anything soft. She slept on the floor with no blankets and spat at the clouds. No one told me any of this before I saw her across the room at a party. She was wearing a scratchy sweater and nibbling on ice cubes. I was drunk and kissed her softly on the lips. Reflexively, she bit down on my tongue. "What happened to you," the wide-eyed nurse said later. Strings of blood were swinging from my lips. I mumbled something. "Love?" she said, "Love did this to you?" "I don’t know anything about love," I shouted, sprinkling the counter red. It was true, I’d never loved anyone. I didn’t even know what it meant. It was something they put in the movies and people said to convince themselves they hadn’t wasted their lives. I was angry and never talked to the girl again. I got a job moving boxes then lost it. I had a few girls, but they never stayed long. There was a black rock planted in my chest that twisted as I marched through town. My hair thinned and I cursed at children necking in the park. This went on for many years which became more years and then my life.