In the express lane, a woman has eleven pints of Haagen Dazs but no one’s arguing with a woman who’s having that bad of a day already.
He pulls her close, caresses her cheek, and whispers in her ear in French, but she doesn’t speak French, and so the dishes remain unwashed.
The steam rises from her coffee and dissolves into thin air, like so many unrealized dreams. She sighs, and returns to PowerPoint.
He tears off her clothes with reckless abandon, a rampaging Godzilla in the Tokyo of her undergarments.
They ride up 37 floors in silence, each of them desperately trying to think of something casual to say. The smooth jazz only makes it worse.