His hands in his hair, he wished he could call her, she who fucked around behind his back, betrayed him with her bullshit hypocrisy, who he feared would plunge the needle to the vinyl vein, to drown out her pain with some Pop Girl Sap Song. Very plastic of her. She listened to Courtney Love and Hole, and became a better victim. She smeared candy-colored lipstick on her face and tore her clothes in the right places. She thought she was tough. She drew candy-colored hearts by Maybelline all over the mirrors in her apartment, and dropped her knee and hip and lay her elbow down and blew kisses to herself all day long to a waterfall of sound. She did not have any trouble enjoying silence. She never gave herself the opportunity. She had him break the seal on the painted over window in her bathroom so she could hang her head out and scream for everyone to hear her. She was a scratch lottery winner and loser all in the same day. She was a brilliant mess. An idiot savant. A fool to cry. And no one cared to know why. She was the inspiration for many a vexation. The muse of the frustrated sigh.