There's spit dripping down my driver's side window. I went to open my door, ready to leave my late shift, and found my hand covered slime.

"What the hell?"

I barely peek at my door handle, afraid what I'll find. Phlegm, loogie, drool. Everywhere. Like who has that much to cough up?

And sitting on my windshield, is a bouquet of flowers. Spit and daisies. Just when I didn't think my ex-boyfriend could show me how much of sociopath he really is, he horrifyingly surprises me. Last week I woke up to him standing over me telling me beautiful I looked sleeping. Enough with silence and hoping things will just get better. Being nice and naïve isn't working.

My face is warm and comforted by the growing flames. Or maybe what's really comforting, is my ex's shock and fear that's all over his face.

"You're fucking crazy!"" he screams, trying to put out the burning bouquet that's very close to setting his car ablaze. At least I didn't uses gasoline. I mean, if you're going to try to make point of how deep and dark your love goes, at least buy something nicer than a few strands of pretty straw the gas station. That shit is like kindling. Sirens start echoing closer to us.

"Use your spit," I yell.

"What the hell, Anne?" Panic dripping from his voice.

"Please," I say clear, despite smoke sneaking into lungs.

"Don't send me flowers."