1. She moves like a widow through the chaos of boxes and rolled-up rugs, fatal remains of what was and is not. Already missing my initials, her luggage slumps before the door waiting to slam our days dead. 2. I pull it from my finger. Once it gleamed in a sanctuary of holy water and incense. Today I desert it for cash. “Ya don’t mind singles, do ya, Bud?” cackles the man who slaps down one-hundred-thirty-seven dollars. My pockets bulge green as I walk in a blur of wedding-white sun, wishing a road could take me home.