I was standing over the corpse of my last relationship when the detective walked in. The world deconstructed under her gaze, a breed of aggressive disapproval that begged every inch of information from the scene. I felt compelled. I’ve been drawing conclusions, I told her. “Well then,” she said, an iron reed, “show me what you’ve got.” I passed her the little notebook I’d been carrying around. Taking a look at the cartoon heart I’d rendered, torn in two, she smiled from the inside. “Classic,” she said, “I see it all the time. Obviously suicide.” I’d fallen in love.