RAY HALLIDAY’S LAST WILD DAYS
From across the courtyard, Nelson saw the scatter of debris Hannah had tossed from their apartment. Socks and boxers, one Nike, one Puma, his poo emoji pillow, blue milk crates of nested speaker cables, their artificial Christmas tree. All of it looking like a picked-over lost and found.
Earlier he and Hannah had been drinking at Pooh Bah’s, and she’d found some texts from an ex that he thought he’d deleted. Nelson knew he shouldn’t have been complimenting another girl’s booty, but it didn’t mean he’d been with the girl again.
The storm door banged open, Hannah stepped out. “You don’t live here anymore.”
“Hannah,” he pleaded.
Her freckled arms, pale and slender, were crossed. One hand managed both a cigarette and a bottle of Corona. “All your stuff, it’s right there”—she flicked her eyes—“so you don’t need to come back.”
“Can we talk? You haven’t even let me explain.”
“And I’m not gonna.”
His jaw stiffened, and he watched moths batting themselves against a floodlight.
“Yeah, do something,” she said. “See if this Karen doesn’t call the police on your butt.”
She was right. They had a way of winding each other up. Inside, Virgil, their little Yorkie, barked. “You got Virgil upset now,” Nelson said.
She looked away, puckering her mouth.
“That toaster oven’s yours.” He looked at the pile. “I got that for you.”
“I don’t want it,” she said.
“It’s a Black and Decker.”
“Oh well.”
“How you gonna make those little pizzas you like?”
“I guess I’m not.”
He propped up the Christmas tree, the base now cockeyed. It was July—dark and balmy—and he knew he
