Outside

She catches him outside, smoking.

He smiles a greeting, but she is remembering her father's cough – his blackened, shriveled lungs.

"It's better than whiskey," he remarks lightly, sadly.

For a moment, she watches her pale breath mingle with his dark smoke.

She walks past him.

The heavy thud makes her turn. He has tumbled down, his cane far from his grasp and the cigarette smoldering by his head. Laughing, a teenage boy runs away.

She helps him up. Her hand, on his – something flutters.

But he pushes her away. "Please, don't pity me."

She doesn't pity him. She loves him.


Inside

His resistance to temptation was his one pride. Surrounded by clinking bottles, he's kept it at bay. But through her horrified eyes, he sees he's only traded one demon for another.

She offers a helping hand. For a moment, he clutches at it.

But he will not yield to this temptation. He must not pluck the bloom off the ground – must let it be.

Back inside, he focuses on her laughs again.

"I don't believe it."

"It's true," he confides. "He was quite the comedy sensation."

Together, they peer over and laugh.

He doesn't deserve her. He loves her anyway.