she pulls his hand from his pocket and curls her palm around his, forcing a fist, as if begging a dead man to fight. his concentrated stare gives way to a good natured grin as his eyes dart toward the one who he could never disagree. the knowledge of another lingers as they exchange glances like crudely folded notes under the desks of a grammer school english class. the timid giggles still abound, but instead of holding hands behind the backstop, they retire to a haven more suitable for an affair at this age. the man farthest from her sight is the man farthest from her mind, yet the closest to her heart.
what then? what then are we to upset the heart. what then? we are me, and i'm sorry.
