The lock on the right rear door of Gray's black Lexus doesn’t work. We were having some Two-Buck-Chuck and he said, “I need to get that fixed.” I left my gallery that night and stole into his car; it smelled expensive. Maybe that kind of money pays for extra smell. He kept a camera in the glove box, and mix-CDs. I stuffed my panties under the armrest, stole some music and took pictures of myself on that camera.
I have two cats in my apartment in Echo Park, my stab at redemption. They leave pools of piss around their litter box on days I’m late. Once a year, I buy a card, wish my daughter all the love in the world and drop it in the mailbox. I leave the envelope blank.
Next Art Walk, Gray stayed after closing, and I imagined he’d found my pictures, and I said, “Do you want to show me your place?” and he said, “No, Susan,” and after three minutes he was gone. I went to the garage and peed on the driver’s seat. I wiped myself and put the napkin into his glove box. I said, “I get it.”