He choked me. I remembered the next morning. His hand was around my neck and I couldn’t breathe. We were drunk and I had insulted his artwork. I said it was stupid, boring. I said it looked like the work of a retarded child. No, a retarded child could do better. I took his favorite painting that was hanging in the living room and threw it out the window. It hit the car parked on the street below. I’d been wanting to do that. He was so sure of himself. It felt good to bring him down, to tell him the truth. As he choked me I could see the hate in his eyes. The next morning we drank coffee. What happened last night? I said. I don’t remember, he said. I think we drank too much. He was smiling. That was my first boyfriend.