Mesmerized by doe-lit eyes glistening tears, he holds her squirming, French-manicured hand. Heineken bottles sweat rings upon pick-up. Free fingers weaved together uncomfortably. Choking annihilating sadness, he tells her he would rather be the one when she says,
“Inoperable… can’t fix me through plastic surgery.”
Eying dance floor ash, he recalls their vacation to ruins.
