Tyler and I are in a bar, sitting at a table by themselves near the back with a pitcher of beer. I want to hit Tyler. I don’t know why, but I want to feel the impact of my knuckles cracking onto his face, like that first night we fought outside of Lou’s. I’m not angry, I just crave the feeling. Is that weird? “Something on your mind, dear?” Tyler asks, interrupting my train of thought. I must’ve been staring at him. I shake my head. Why does he call me these godawful names?