They met at a phone-book-ripping contest,
while outside the auditorium, spring was a promise,
the day was breaking.
He carried a Ouija board for whenever
he wanted to say something controversial,
drove in a way she could only describe as theatrical.
She was investigating the game Battleship
as the perfect metaphor for love,
said a number of self-publishing companies
were currently uninterested.
Then, at his house, naked as a candle flame,
she spoke as though she were in a phone booth,
both feet up against the door.
And later, at her enormously small apartment,
she said, “Beer is technically a bread-flavoured soda,”
and he laughed until it tore out his nose.