Pouring my cereal just now. Reaching in the fridge for the milk. My ex’s name flashes before my eyes–the ex I had to banish. And I think wait a minute. What was that? I scan the front of the fridge and I don’t see it, so I peer around the side. There it is: the business card I made for him. I remember how he liked it at first, then decided he didn’t. Because it was my sense of humor–it displayed more humility than he was accustomed to. People liked it, though. They chuckled. It endeared him to them even though it shouldn’t have. Nothing should have. I returned to my cereal: the slicing of the granny smith apple. And my stomach knotted. A wave of nausea, of panic. But it’s resigned panic. Familiar horror. This old thing. Like TV crime shows, when someone steals away from a grisly scene, or a shocking piece of news, to quietly, abruptly hurl. Except this isn’t new, suddenly announced; this is a feeling I live with. This just happens inside me on a loop. I wonder: is this who I am now? And I remember what he said, in the beginning, about me: You love with your whole heart. Your whole self. Almost no one does that. He was so smart. He was smart in the way serial killers are smart: a flash of dark, triumphant arrogance, that hides itself again, convinces you it’s not there. You have nothing to fear. You can relax now.