Just like in the Department of Mysteries!

Tonight's Workout Accompaniment: Democratic National Convention (Again)

My heart is like a foyer, round with at least a dozen doors from which to choose. It's a deep blue room, and the doors have silver doorknobs. Four of them are marked with grotesque milagros.

The ghosts of my former lovers linger there, in the foyer, for a few months following the angry words.

I bump into them sometimes, on my way out or in.

They lurk around, scowling at me. They don't want to be there. I don't want them there. I scowl back at them.

They resist my attempts to force them to choose a door.

I'll trip over them at the strangest times: while doing my taxes or driving to work or working out at the gym. Or when someone says "Namibia" or "politics" or when it hails or when it rains.

Today I walked through the foyer, and the most recent ghost was gone. He chose a door, disappeared behind it, and nailed another broken heart into the deep blue wood.

Now there are five.

Usually, once they choose a door, I never see them again.

I feel stronger when they've gone, when my heart is blissfully empty and light, its marble floor polished. My collection of corazones sagrados gleams and reflects the light. They're beautiful in their savagery.

The woman whose reflection I catch in some of those tin miracles looks back at me and smiles and reminds me that, eventually, they all choose a door.

Now I'm free to come and go as I please, knowing there's no specter waiting for me.

Sometimes, I dwell outside their doors, dreaming of their evaporated kisses and my well of tears run dry.

And I wonder if I prefer my floor polished and my heartaches preserved.