There are 99 ex-boyfriends.
Then 59.
Then 29.
Then 9.
They move out. They get jobs. They get married. Their Christmas cards fill our mailbox, along with Hanukkah and Kwanzaa cards, featuring photographs of families in matching sweater vests on Alpine ski slopes or in front of blue screen fireplaces. Even the cards eventually taper off.
The remaining ex-boyfriends stay put, but sheepishly, as if they’re not supposed to be here. The ones who stay, they don’t really want to be found. They linger in the margins of the house; morning movies booming in the theater room, weed smoke unfurling from an unused closet. With each and every passing year, the back wing shrinks and shrivels up, an old man’s balls gradually retracting into his body.
Caleb. Chang. Charles. Chris. Cornelius. I want you all.