I left the oven on, I laughed. 400 degrees for hours. I ran to the kitchen and turned it off, came back with tissues. She was crying, pretzel-legged in my bed. We’d made pizza. I hated black olives but she loved them, so I arranged them in a misshapen heart. She couldn’t believe I wanted to end things, said she loved everything I did for her, the way I made her feel. I dried her tears, offered her water. She said it felt like I was barely there. I was listening, but I couldn’t stop imagining the apartment in flames.
Emma Rowan is a writer from New York and an MFA candidate at Miami University. She loves reading old Nancy comic strips instead of revising.