Conrad

Belle Star and I are watching Dancing With the Stars. It is the first time I've ever seen the show and I don't know who the "stars" are. Belle is emotional. It is raining cats and dogs.

"Curt, about what happened last night, I don't know, I guess I've been a little on edge or something."

On TV, a "star" is dancing the rumba.

"Curt," Belle Star whispers, "f**k everything."

I don't know why I invited Belle over, maybe because I know that I won't be in my apartment much longer.

"F**k everything," I repeat, without thinking.

Regrette and Warden are sleeping on the couch and Belle Star and I are on the floor. Belle Star told me earlier that she thought my face was handsome. I wonder if Peggy Waters said that to Guy. The judges on the TV are gushing over the dancers, who are breathing hard and smiling big.

I want to brush my teeth. I want to go to bed, alone.

"I don't feel well," I say.

There is silence, and I break it by asking, "why did you shoot at the bird, Belle?"

"I have to go," she says.

"To the bathroom," she says.

The show ends. I think Belle Star is doing lines of cocaine in there. I knock on the door.

There is no answer.

When I open the door, she is not in the bathroom and the window is wide open.

This seems to me to be the best of all possible outcomes. I look behind the shower curtain, and then, out the window. I look deep in my heart of hearts.

It is a heart of darkness.