She runs a fire hydrant business in Dallas, is on the road most of the time. He, back home in Paris, nurses drunks. It kind of works. She has connections in the waterways communications lobby in the senate. He is looking for a vitamin supplement for shingles victims. They meet up for their final weekend in Miami, at the Hotel de P. They sit up all night studying the fate of Atlantis. Why am I telling you this? I know you don’t care, that’s why. You yourself argued with your father-in-law during the funeral; upset about your pony’s sinew strain. You call the old man names, and refuse his offer of pistachio ice cream. It will end badly. It’s that time in the decade for you to rediscover your remaining tear duct. I’m at the airport waiting in the cleaners’  cupboard closest to the departure bay; my patience is less than 100 mls; I’m down to my last love letter.

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