Play Nice

by Rachel Harrison

Behind every crazy woman is a man sitting very quietly, saying, “What? I’m not doing anything.” —Jade Sharma, Problems

But the easiest way to tell who a man really is, is to injure his ego and see how he reacts.

Someday Leda will discover Xanax, and her quality of life will improve drastically. Until then, she needs to wear a night guard so she doesn’t grind her teeth to powder.

Rain taps at my window, a polite alarm.

I wonder if love can be ugly. If it can do the wrong thing. Bad things. I wonder if it can ever really die.

Men are all the same, Mom once told us, but it’s the ones who try the hardest to convince you that they’re good that you really have to watch out for.

Why, as a man, wear a slim gold chain if you’re open to commitment? That’s the universal symbol for fuckboy. A chain like that comes with a box of ribbed Trojans and a habit of liking Instagram models’ bikini pics.

Never fall in love. It’ll ruin your life. More motherly wisdom. Funny, what memories stick.

“Darling, what other people think of me is none of my business,” she said.

“Yeah. No.”

There’s no room in my beautiful life for all this ugliness.

Leda’s turning purple, she’s so mad. She looks like she’s about to levitate. Like her head is about to spin all the way around.