Guy tells his girlfriend he wants to part ways. Girl has a hard time accepting this. In a ploy to get guy back, she offers to help him clean his apartment. On a Saturday morning, Starbucks iced coffees in hand, Arcade Fire’s “The Suburbs” blaring on the stereo, he in sweats, she in a mini skirt and an extra squirt of perfume, they dust, vacuum, scrub windows. She remembers their 4th of July in Montauk, his annoying niece who could never pronounce her name properly, the white roses he sent her on her birthday (“red’s just way too obvious,” he insisted with that crooked smile). Warm sunlight. Beaming optimism. With a box of his dusty LPs in her arms, her foot suddenly skids across the hardwood floor, as if on a banana peel. “FUCK!” she shouts, the records tumbling everywhere, her ACL severely wrenched. Under her shoe she finds a soiled condom. The new girl.
