Sometimes I think if there were credit ratings for hearts then mine would be junk status: BAD INVESTMENT, the signs would say, PURCHASE NOT ADVISED. All the sensible consumers would keep a wide berth, tutting: “Don’t touch that sweetie,” a mother would say, “it’s rotten.” Eventually of course some loveable, gullible fool would find me and dump me in their basket with the tuna. Later, when they unwrapped me, they’d find the cuts and bruises purpling my heart like a banana. Shit they’d think, tossing me in the trash. Should have read the signs.