I taught you how to play that song, spreading your fingers wide, slowing the tempo way down at first, sometimes not even able to face you. “You are butchering that accordion.” Jamming my thumbs in my eyes and trying to massage the knots out. I will admit now that I felt like you were holding me back. I was pinning my hopes to the flat, freckled chest of a nobody. So I went for long walks. I sat at the picnic bench and drew pictures alongside the crossword puzzles: me being hoisted upon the shoulders of a lunatic throng, me revealing a small and humble smile, me lost in the rapture of some phrase. After the tenth trek to the park I returned home and heard you — the notes strong, flawless, piercing in their cold beauty. The song had been drained of all heartbreak and rebuilt as a mechanical threnody. I danced and applauded and kissed your tearless eyes. How did you do it? and oh I don’t care, I don’t care, you were my ticket out of there after all, your sweet loathing taking us straight to the top, my darling, my baby.