Blood was on his clothes. A perfectly white tee-shirt turned dark red. His hands were shaking. Tried to talk but made no sense. Babbled about how the dude kept coming after him. Said he wouldn’t quit swinging. All this for a girl.

She was a pretty one. Long black hair and high cheek bones; mysterious eyes. Tall girl. She wore jeans and cowboy boots to the local bars. He thought she was all his. Killed him when he saw her that night. Out with some dude from Chicago. He wore gold bracelets with his initials on them, a necklace with a diamond anchor. Had a gold tooth.

It don’t have to go down this way, he said to the boy in the parking lot. I just met her, the dude told him. Haven’t even bought her a drink, the boy pulled out a switchblade his daddy had given him before he died.

The boy went straight for the heart. Started slicing away at the dude’s chest, his neck, and stomach where he jabbed it in and twisted it. Dude fell to the pavement. No one made a sound. The boy didn’t make a sound, and neither did she. They just looked at each other. He dropped the knife.

We met down by the river. I remember waiting for him in the rain. Told him if they caught him he was looking at manslaughter, maybe murder, but probably manslaughter. He didn’t know the difference. He just said, I done messed up this time.

I had a spare plate in the trunk. An old license from a truck I used to own. We switched out plates and he opened the door to the Dodge. He said, I’ll never see you again, lit a cigarette and rolled down the window.

Sometimes, these things happen, I told him. Here, put on this shirt, he threw the bloody one down on the floorboard. You know, I said. That blood is never gonna come out, he nodded, said thanks, and took off.

I ain’t seen him since.