You meet someone and the way they button their collar is different, funny, charming. Never really met anyone with a collar like that. You fall hard. And things are good. Talk of moving in together (“We’ll never mix up our shirts when we do the laundry, ha ha,” you joke, weakly), some make-outy Craigslist-browsing sessions, real momentous romance. And then: the bloom is off the rose. What’s her problem? What’s her thing with her neck? You start eyeing the deep-vees when you’re at the bar, when you’re walking down the street. Has she caught your stolen glances, does she know you’re bored, that you’re kind of done with this? No: just look at that shit-free grin: somehow she just doesn’t see it, doesn’t get it, and that makes you hate her more. Her and her repellant collars. Her touch is a bleeding rash, and it’s your throat that her buttons are strangling.