His chin rested on the edge of the table as a bottle of vodka passed back and forth between his trembling hands. Right to left. His eyes contorted comically as they stared through the clear liquid, though their gaze contained no true mirth. Left to right. Across the room was where they appeared to be focused - not on the overturned coffee table from last week, or the broken pane of glass from last month - but twenty-five years in the past . Every sleepless night of every year mistakenly allocated to his continued existence found him ruminating over her moment of sacrifice, her declaration of love.
He twisted the lid off the bottle.
Love will destroy us all.