We're in Las Vegas in a club—think Studio 54—and the guy who keeps buying me drinks has asked me to marry him. He's wearing a t-shirt and jeans—so it can't actually be Studio 54—and his t-shirt has the number 7 on it, like a sports jersey, only th

Erased. Like chalk across my body, a fine powder of forgetfulness, with a few swipes --- all those names and faces, gone. The letters burned.