Flesh and metal cling and twist. The bodies of the people and the cars cross, split open, and bloom into one another.

Philip is late. Of course. Its 6:15 and I've been staring at this print so long I may as well be inside it.

"Your late."

I can sense this one from more than two-thirds of a mile away. With my eyes closed or cemented to Andy Warhol.

"That's not what you said last night."

"That doesn't even make sense."

I turn to look at Philip and punch him in the arm.

"Ouch. Christ, don't you think you've done enough damage to my body for one weekend?"

"Oh, look who's talking. The guy who gave me herpes."

He sucks the white air of the museum in through his teeth.

"Yeah...about that. Sorry. I really didn't..."

"I know. S'alright. Apologizing doesn't do much now."

"Nope. I suppose it doesn't."

"Its kind of funny. I mean, you'd think it would've been the other way around. I should've been handing out herpes ages ago."

"Yeah. No shit."

"So...how about that club? I was thinking we could..."

"So I'm really not enough for you. You would seriously rather build your herpes empire than just be with me?"

He interrupted me again. Goddamn it. Nobody does that. I try to look him in the face, but I can't, so instead I rest my fingers under the palm of his mangled hand.

"I don't know. I mean...no. I guess we could give it a try. But stop grinning at me."

"I'm not."

"Yes you are. Knock it off. And you didn't even wash these cuts on your hands. Jesus, that's just like you."

"You know you like it."

"Shut up. I can't believe I let you turn me into one of your damn stories."

"Yeah. Nice backdrop, by the way."

We look up at the painting and he takes my other hand.

"Now all we need is some Iggy Pop. Let's get out of here."

The the museum echoes as our shoes hit the ground. All the way out into the street.

The walls in the art museum are too white. The floors in the art museum are too white. The ceilings in the art museum are too white. The lights in the art museum are too white. The intellectuals in the art museum are too white.

Or maybe the art just has too much color. The way it stands out against its white world gives me vertigo. It, among other things--waiting for Dirty Harry, for one--makes me want to vomit. The rest of the art reminds me of vomit on a porcelain background. Maybe I should. I'll call it one of my greatest installations. Art is vomit. Especially Andy Warhol's.

Art used to imitate life. Mimesis: That woman or that boy or that pile of shit is beautiful. I would like to reveal that beauty with my hands. Now, life imitates art. If I am going to have an epiphany, it had better be in the falling rain, or I will not scream at the top of my lungs. If I am going to fall in love, a Damien Rice song ought to be playing in background, not Iggy Pop. I think that Andy Warhol gets this. He gets it over and over and over again, upon various screens.

I am staring at a car accident, unable to move. Saturday Disaster. In silver. If I must confront the person who gave me herpes, changed my life's course, it ought to be in front of this wreck. What day is it?

"Goddamn it, Harry," I whisper under my breath as, without thought, I stand.

"You know that guy?" Raskolnikov asks.

I meet Philip's eyes and say "no" resolutely, before I reclaim my seat next to number 368.

I hate it when he does melodramatic shit like that. And there comes a point when you cannot turn back.

"Fuck. That must hurt," Raskolnikov says. Blood splits across Philip's knuckles as Tom leads him away.

"Yeah."

* * *

After Raskolnikov departs for his nice life, I call Philip's cell. Voicemail. Of course. He's screening me.

"Of course. Your screening me. That's very classy of you, Harry. Almost as classy as a punch through a pane of glass. Christ. There's an Andy Warhol exhibit at the Late Modern. I'll be there at 6 PM."

In the coffee shop one day, I heard a woman tell her lovelorn friend that if she had to work so hard at the relationship, it probably wasn't working.

"You know, she heard that on an episode of the OC," I told Lovelorn, raising my eyebrows as I walked past their table and out the door to catch up with number 145.

If you don't have to work hard, then it probably isn't love. Before herpes, I hadn't considered working at a relationship for anymore time than it takes a man to come. There would be no herpes singles club. There would be no number 369. There comes a point at which you cannot turn back.

Raskolnikov is not much of a lay and I tell him so.

"Sorry," he says.

"Now that's exactly what I mean. Don't apologize for what you are."

"Okay."

* * *

It is best to know your weaknesses. The conventional would tell you to mark your weaknesses so you can avoid or mask them. I say you ought to embrace them.

* * *

"The whole time, it was like you were apologizing me to death. You're a smart kid, though. I'd rank you as about number 4 or 5 as far as intellectual conversations go. And that's out of a sample of 368, so you ought to be proud."

"Uh...thanks. So, its almost 6. You wanna go get dinner or something."

"Absolutely not. Here are your pants. Have a nice life."

* * *

I think it is just as important to know your strengths. Dirty Harry didn't know the first thing about strengths and weaknesses. Yet he was writing some story about accidental situations and the integrity of man. That first afternoon, after I'd looked over his story and looked over his story, I asked him,

"What makes you think you can write a damn thing about integrity when you don't know shit about your own shit."

"My shit?"

"Yeah. Your shit. Your weaknesses."

"Pssh. I don't have any."

He laughed.

"Sure you do. First off, you kiss too hard. Second..."

"Maybe for you. I haven't had any complaints before..."

"Don't interrupt me. Nobody does that. So, first, you kiss too hard. For me. I count, and that's a weakness. Second, your writing could be a lot better. Third, you talk..."

"Hey, now. My writing is better than yours."

He interrupted me again. Nobody does that. I was dumbfounded. And totally turned on.

I am sitting in the coffee shop on 27th, waiting for Dirty Harry to show up so we can discuss the plan. He will not like it. I am nervous. Driving myself crazy trying to think of selling points. For some reason, I feel like I need him for this. Why? I can't tell. To keep from biting my fingernails (a horribly unattractive habit), I open the journal in front of me and start a list:

"Why God Gave Me Herpes" by Bethany Lowe

1) I pulled up my skirt and showed Dusty Raddinger my Rainbow Brite underpants in the 2nd grade.

2) I fed my vegetables to the dog.

3) Sometimes I do not wash my hands after I go to the bathroom.

4) I urinated on the side of the Four Square Church of Light while drunk after a frat party. (It was an emergency, I swear).

5) I broke Gerald Minot's heart. Twice. I shouldn't have done that.

6) I swear often and emphatically.

7) My mother voted for Ronald Reagan while she was pregnant with me.

8) I have had sex with 367 different men.

9) I haven't spoken to my father in over 4 years.

10)

I feel a pair of eyes on me and look up from my pad of paper. There is pale hipster looking boy with dyed black hair and reckless blue eyes gazing at me over his copy of Crime and Punishment. He is pretending to read, but it is a struggle with my humanity he is interested in now. Not Raskolnikov's. I can spot desire from two-thirds of a mile away. True story. Ask conquest #117. I picked him up running at the track field.

I could have this one easily. I might have to. Sometimes, I can't help myself. Dirty Harry better walk through that door soon, or I may end up leaving with Raskolnikov.

I bite my lip and turn back to my list.

10) I fell in love.

I close my journal, give Raskolnikov a glance he'll appreciate and stand up.

"Well fuck me."

At this, Sam wakes up. He knows something is wrong when I ignore his "don't mind if I do" reply. Me cradling my message machine was probably a pretty good indicator as well.

"What's wrong?"

I pour him a shot of gin and take another myself. I play him the message and sit back down on the bed, in a daze.

"Aw, man. That's a bummer...wait...does that mean that I have herpes too? Fuck me."

Suddenly, I cannot stop laughing. Hyenas laugh when they are fighting over carrion and feeling vulnerable. One of my anthropology professors planned to write a book about the phenomenon to prove that homo sapiens started as scavengers and not as hunters. He said that we also laugh when feeling vulnerable and we are the only animals on earth that laugh besides hyenas. I laughed at him, threw his pants at him and told him to get out of my bed. I had to go to class.

Sam starts laughing too and we are rolling all over my bed for at least ten minutes. When madness finally passes we lie and stare at the ceiling.

"I'm real sorry, Sam. I sort of deserve this, but you probably don't."

"Yeah. Well, we can't do much about it now. We better get tested and have sex with other unfortunates, I guess. Maybe I'll start wearing a patch or a pin or something. 'I have herpes, how about it?'"

I laugh. I examine the hem of my comforter. Sam begins to dress. As I watch him pull on his blue jeans, it comes to me.

"You know, that's actually not a bad idea. I love sex. It is what I do best. I am not letting this random Dirty Harry ruin that for me. We should start some sort of club. You know, like a leper colony, or a Christian singles club, but for people with herpes. What do you think?"

"I think you're crazy. But let me know if you start it up. I'm not actually gonna wear a pin, though."

Sam is not the sharpest crayon in the box. After he leaves, I call Dirty Harry back. I get his voicemail.

"You rat bastard. I can't believe you gave me herpes. Stop crying in your cheap whiskey. I have a plan."

So Sam is kissing me. I think his name is Sam. Kissing me hard. Rubbing my sweater off of my shoulder. I slam my apartment door and he pushes me against the end table. I toss my keys onto it. Out of the corner of my eye I can see there is a message on my machine. I palm the play button as I brace myself against another of Sam's shoves.

But, wait just one minute. Who, you ask, has one of those old fashioned message machines? It is almost 2006, for Christ's sake. The information age. Not the goddamn 80's. Well, apparently, I do. So shut the fuck up. It's my story.

All I hear of the message is a man's "hey" and a long "umm." I know that umm, and I know it can't mean anything good, so I push pushy, beautiful Sam back. Back towards my bedroom and slam another door. One of my paintings falls off the wall. Shit. I hope the frame isn't broken. But there's no time to check. Sam has finally succeeded with my sweater. I make short work of his shirt. And now every painting in the room can fall off its nail for all I care. For the next 20 minutes, Sam is all the pretty I need.