I ask her about the dinner. She says she is not hungry.
He says I am beautiful. So shall we find a room?
I swear by the saints — that I will tell her when the time is right.
Love can be a plastic bag or a chocolate wrapper or a sweaty hand.
Think no more for the dead.
They are rare to come by, now that this war is all I remember ever happening.
Now they are before me. I retreat into the shadows as he twirls her outward.
From across their little coffee-table, Valentin lost himself in her deep-dark eyes.