e drags himself into the apartment after another forever day at the office. Fortunately, serious money makes it all worthwhile. Anyway, it's not like he's going to do it forever. He's had this conversation with himself a hundred times, a thousand: make hay while the sun shines, pal, because who knows when that rain's coming. He loosens his tie, drops his briefcase on the couch. Goes to the kitchen for a beer. Wonders where the hell she is.

There's a note by the cutting board, on her Save the Manatees stationery. He gets the beer before picking it up, unfolding it. Out falls a check. "My half of the rent," he reads, "even though I'm leaving before the end of the month." Below that, in handwriting so much neater than her usual scrawl, is what he supposes has to be called a poem.

Thank you for Saying Goodbye I saw through you almost from the first, but I was horny and needed someone to write poetry to.

He has never known her to write a poem. Ever. He hated poetry in school, and he hates it more now. There was at least an excuse then, a teacher who forced it on you, a test you had to pass. He glares at the words. They don't even rhyme. And he wasn't the one to say goodbye. Ridiculous. Typical. Poetry—the word wounds like you're trying to spit out something that tastes bad. Something rotten.

Feeling like he's been kicked in the gut, he takes a pen from his pocket and begins rhyming the first vicious words he hopes will help.