Aftermath

He was sitting on an ugly green couch with cat hair all over it. He was lost, in this forest full of people that he was meandering through.

She pushed through the crowd. She knocked a stale bagel out of a woman's hand, she swept a lukewarm plastic cup that had once held coffee off of a gnarled table.

The couch came quicklier than she had expected. She collasped on it, before regaining her artificial elegance.

It was like sitting on cardboard, stiff, but trembling under her weight. She adjusted her black velvet skirt. It made her itchier than a million fleas would have, but it was the only dark artical of clothing she owned.

Any other person would have told him: "I'm so, so, sorry."

But other people didn't have souls.

He was too fragile.

She had a soul. She opened it up, threw open the curtains that guarded her inner self.

She took his shaking hand, looked deep into his broken eyes, and cried with him.