"We were in love," I tell the state patrolman who is sent to take my name and phone number. "No, wait, I was in love," I correct. I clarify. "But that was months ago now."

"Are you sure you aren’t just angry?" he says, taking my hand in his hand, watching my eyes like we’re in the final scene of the kind of movies my grandma watches when she drinks lots of wine.

"I am angry," I will learn not to say.

The lady cop will walk circles into the floor of my kitchen. She will memorize the ceiling tiles.

"Take off your shoes," I won’t say to her. "You are tracking mud across the floor of my home."

"This is not your home," she won’t say back. "I’ve stood here a million times before you arrived. I’ll stand here for a million more girls after you’re gone."

I will go see a therapist who will try to hypnotize the memories out of me.