Andrew, the neighbor lover who killed the bug....

Andrew, the neighbor, is also helping me kill you. Not literally of course. But he sure is helping me kill the memory.

Andrew does not just kill bugs.

He does not just walk my dog.

He does not just break into my apartment for me when I am locked out and my keys and dogs are locked in.

"You like the Avett Brothers?" he said.

"I didn't, but I do now, my ex got me into them," I replied. With the word ex, my mouth dried.

He could tell and said, "well, ex's are good for something aren't they?"

His eyes unlocked mine.

I guess so, I mean ex's are usually good for losing about 10 pounds, girl can't complain. But they leave more behind, music, books, boxers (you know the ones you adapt into your pajama pile and just ignore the fact that his body wore them once, or relish in it). Baggage claims worth of baggage.

And then someone unpacks it all. Eventually. Not necessarily a new love, sometimes just a friend, sometimes just a movie that makes you cry a little, or laugh a little. Sometimes a long walk.

Sometimes a neighbor.

Andrew loved me that night and a few nights post. He also saw me puke up all my happiness the night Obama made history (champagne, beer, wine, vodka: a sorry mix). He has a hole in his heart too. I can tell. He speaks of the perptrator sometimes. But mostly I speak of mine. He listens and then he holds me and loves me again.

Or puts the act on. It feels good, but it's not misleading.

Yes, it might get sticky. Scratch that. It WILL get sticky. But I don't care.

He is mending me a little every day.