grunts and punches his pillow. He is divided, this strange man, as if he both wants to speak and wants not to. Finally, he says tightly, “What did you wear to your senior prom, Mac?” “Pink dress,” I mumble. “Tiffany bought the same one. Totally ruined my prom. But my shoes were Betsey Johnson. Hers were Stuart Weitzman. My shoes were better.” I laugh. It is the sound of someone I do not recognize, young and without care. It is the laugh of a woman who knows no pain, never did. I wish I knew her. He touches my face. There is something different in his touch. It feels like he’s saying good-bye,
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