She stands in the parking lot of the cheap motel, casually smoking a cigarette on her break. The planes on her face and the slump of her shoulders tell their own wordless stories.
He sits in a chair in his apartment, perfectly angled towards the television, and tries to focus on the conversation at hand. His adolescent son looks towards him with unyielding loyalty and a misguided sense that this time, things will be different.
She grieves.
He telephones and talks for thirty minutes. The loneliness crackles through the line like its own living, breathing thing. Reassurances are lost.
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