This year my fake name is Ronaldo. Every January, I change my name and phone number, shedding my old identity like a snake separating from the crinkly skin that housed its lies. That’s how I break up with boyfriends. Newly born, I wear an ex-lover’s life. One year, I dyed my hair blonde and limped, imitating my first sweetheart Fernando. Another time, I gained 20 pounds and curled weights, until my arms were as thick and strong as those of Misael, who choked me when I climaxed. It’s very dangerous being only one person for too long: you risk petrifying into love, mummifying into the permanent, which, if I can speak candidly, terrifies me like blows with a knife. A coward, I’d rather morph than freeze in love’s wax museum, where everyone can, clearly, see who I am. But the fluid also has its risks. Unlike me, Ronaldo was addicted to crystal meth, so as I try on his life, I have to be careful. I lift the syringe to the light, tap it three times, and slowly push the plunger, to take out the air bubbles.