_HIM is scribbling furiously; he is writing a letter to the girl he thinks he will always be condemned to love. Of course, you have to realize, he is in high school right now._ HIM: _[speaking as he writes]_ But there is so much more I want to tell you. I love the way you put nail polish on. I love the cruel winter blast of your smile. I love when you talk to other guys, flirt with other guys, get wowed by other guys, listen to other guys, go home with other guys, laugh at other guys’ dumb jokes, drink other guys’ drinks, watch other guys’ eyes roving over your perfect perfect breasts. I love that I was on the phone with you and got cut off and when I tried to call you back you were on the phone with someone else and I love how I knew with a shadow of doubt that you were thinking of how devastated I would be when I called you back and I love how that made you smile and take your time talking to whomever it was you were talking to, whichever guy it was, whichever suitor with a hard dick and a thing I don’t have and I love how you will love pretending to be hesitant to tell me how you were on the phone with another guy . . . . Will you marry me? _And he looks up, up at the ceiling, up at the sky and he sees stars arranged in the shapes of crosses, and women, and other multifarious beasts too sinister_ _to mention._