I threw a glass bottle on the floor. Shards of glass flew in every direction. “I hate you,” I screamed. My boyfriend, who had accidentally locked me out of our apartment at 3 a.m., sat motionless on the couch, spinning from alcohol and our disastrous party, unable to help. I curled up in tears in the kitchen, accompanied by one hungry mosquito. The next day, he cleaned up all the glass. He got cream for my bug bites. He said sorry. I said sorry. Sometimes little pieces of glass still get stuck in our feet. We just clean them up.

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