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63 Ex-girlfriends’ Friends’ Ex-boyfriends We, guys, are over. Our runs done, and when our ex-girlfriends are bored or tired or just need something to complain of, we’re remembered, and not well. The equation is simple: we’re not in their present lives equals we left them or they dumped us equals bitterness, equals shit list. Our dumbest hopes, private fears, and sublime secrets are passed around like bags of stale chips. Our low points are compared: cheap, unfaithful, unresponsive, noncommittal , selfish, sloth-like on the sofa. We may see each other on streets of cities we haven’t lived in with our old loves. If you recognize me, nod, but don’t stop. We can’t exchange hellos without remembered names. We’re criminals who broke hearts— our penis sizes compared for squeals on some premenstrual meltdown-moody night—and we should observe the silent codes of thieves of time, of criminals between sentences. We’ll glance with the knowing, quiet look of humbly rehabilitated men on parole. ...

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