The exit comes up fast on my right. Once on it, the road splits in three - I take the middle route onto Lyndale Ave South. A minute later, I'm parked and I'm walking towards the liquor store. One hour ago I was standing in a different liquor store, trying to decide which bottom-shelf whiskey would entertain me more this weekend, when my cell phone started buzzing in my pocket.

"Hey..." her voice shook like powerlines.

"Hey back...say, which is shittier? Phillips or Aristocrat? Whiskey, though. Not vodka."

"I got my results." She'd been crying. I could tell because I'd never heard her cry before.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Suddenly, I was choking on my spleen and reading labels backwards. Breaths went out but didn't come back in. I felt like I had been standing up too fast my whole life.

"OK..." I stumbled backwards all the way out of the liquor store, bumping into the checkout on the way.

I should probably point out this wasn't the same girl with the answering machine. This was my ex. My ex-girl, and she didn't have an answering machine. I've spent eternities just waiting for her to call me.

Last week, ex-girl calls and says she's got this thing and she's going in for a test. So I call this clinic, 7th Door, and I say ex-girl has this thing and I might need a test. They ask if its been more than three months since I've had sex with her. Without hesitation, I say yes. They say come in. I do and they take some of my blood.

Eight months ago ex-girl and I were supposed to go to see some shitty band play some shitty bar. I never made it. I ended up pushed up falling over an end table, hitting the floor along with girl with the answering machine's answering machine. By the time the machine was back on the table, ex-girl was officially ex.

OK, back to the liquor store. Rather, backing out of the liquor store. My phone beeps a call coming in. The caller I.D. is one I don't recognize.

"Umm, hey. I'll call you back I have to take this."

I switch calls over.

"Hello?"

It was the clinic.  ¶ 11:12 AM