My older brother's first girlfriend was named Bonnie. My first boyfriend's middle name was Clyde. Bonnie and Clyde. I don't think either of them has died in a slo-mo rain of bullets. Though I know for certain Clyde committed more than his share of misdemeanors. Despite the fact that he had worked in law enforcement. The primary thing I remember about Bonnie is answering the front door of the pink stucco house on third avenue east to find her standing there. She asked if Scott was home. I said no. She then rooted about in her jacket pocket, located a nondescript silver ring, and handed it to me. Tell him I don't want to be his girlfriend any more, she said, and left. Some time after breaking up with Clyde, I moved to the only apartment complex in town that had a pool. It seems he had a friend who lived there as well, since on a half dozen or so occasions I saw him walking across the parking lot, towel in hand. One time I observed this from behind the wheel of my car and didn't act on the opportunity to run him over. Fortunately I was never using the pool when Clyde was there. Clyde's father, the original Clyde, once observed from behind his newspaper that he had never taught his wife how to shoot a gun. Clyde never took me target shooting again. Perhaps he saw the future and knew he would piss me off. I expect I was his last girlfriend/shooting pupil. I expect I most definitely was not the last woman he pissed off.