She had me riding a ten-speed down a reclaimed railroad bed. She was talking about things she liked while I thought of things I did not like.

I did not like her house. I did not like its drywall. Its central air and Disney-themed snow globes ordered from a catalogue inside of a corner cabinet also ordered from a catalogue. I did not like their hot tub, their dryer, their dishwasher. I did not like their lifestyle, their health. I did not like that I liked her.

I listened to the gravel under our tires and heard her finish talking about the material of her favorite outfit.

I wanted her to feel tired, cold, alone. I wanted her to be ashamed of everything she’d been given. We were riding slow and beside each other.

“Have you ever worn clothes dried in the sun?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “You’ve helped me bring them in from the line.”