This includes the pennies and nickels and dimes you hoarded when we first married and you made more money than I did and told me don’t touch those they’re mine; exactly one-half of a bottle of dish soap, watered down to inefficient thinness; a tattered paperback version of The Millionaire Next Door (library loan—I paid the replacement fine); wedding photos snapped on disposable underwater cameras because Wal-Mart had a fire sale; the lock of baby hair I stole from your mother’s treasure box when she redrafted your will; every last one of those so-called secret E*Trade passwords; the dress you made me promise to take back to the corner consignment shop; five hundred heartless I-Love-Yous; an unborn baby that saved thousands in college tuition; keys to your cars; and the diamond you gave me in some shitty backwater B&B, but it was only zirconia anyway, so I took it out and tossed it in the rubbish before sitting down to a double espresso, like the kind you always brought home on early Saturday mornings, thinking I wouldn’t find the single empty paper cup in our recycling bin.