When I was thirty-three, I was madly in love with a man named Herbert. Built like a brick shit house, and worked in a pizzeria. Herbert and I were madly in love. That’s until the day I caught him giving the old pepperoni push to one of his co-workers in the back of our 1992 Sable station wagon. I was aghast. Me holding my pepperoni, this random stranger’s rectal cavity holding my Herbert’s. I felt betrayed. Still we persisted. For a bit. Herbert and I broke up that New Year’s Eve when I found him fingering some young stud near the punch bowl, carelessly pouring spiked Kool Aid all over his balls. I didn’t stay to watch him lap it up.

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