I know. I embarrass you. I walk down the aisle where the automated toys rest quietly on their shelves and I have to activate all of them.

I walk by the jewelry store window and I have to tell you the same story that I always do. You know, the one about the Swiss Army watch and how no one has the special tool to open it and replace the battery?

We drive past the corner with the French bakery and I talk about how we used to walk there and get croissants every Sunday morning. Then we would read the paper. It drove you crazy how I read it back to front, but like I always say, I did that so you could start with the front page.

And then, like always, you say “No, that wasn’t me. That was your ex.”

You swear that you can’t take me anywhere because I cause a scene wherever we go. My voice is too loud; my clothes too wild. I feel like you have fallen under the influence of some kind of anesthesia? Do you ever see me when I dance in the bookstore to the sample CD?

Tonight, shut me up. Burn me up.