I’m not blind or slimy, she told him, you’re just an asshole with unrealistic expectations. Summer outside: black and white buildings, covered in sweat. The picture evens out (roughly) to brown. She swoons at the idea of touching. I’m done with her, he tells himself, strained to keep his hands off: prime real estate. But the parents-built picket fence is stuck up his ass. Someday he’ll jounce it out, impale her on it— right through the heart. I wonder, she chimes blithely, if you can define slime?