I found a twenty-dollar bill in the gutter, muddy and wet. The wind had blown it against the curb. It trembled, as though the only thing holding it there was the desire for someone to see, to acknowledge this waste. I saw, and as the bill finally released itself and flew off, I wept. I shed tears for whoever had misplaced it, and I cursed whoever had discarded it, and I bemoaned the opportunity I’d lost. I thought of Carolyn’s new dress, red with fake sapphires. I tasted instant macaroni and cheese and discount bologna sandwiches, smelled dirty laundry stacked in the corner. I felt the brush of hard water against my arms and groin, and the chill of a broken heater. I walked home in shoes that let in too much air and rain, with a jacket that was as threadbare as my hat. When I got to the apartment, Carolyn was in the kitchen, and I called her a bitch and slapped her. I shoved her into the table; it fell over, carrying her with it. I retrieved a microwave dinner from the freezer and hit her over the head. Something broke, her or the dinner. I threw both to the floor and went upstairs and changed.