I don’t have a preference towards a type of woman, but I did always seem to fall for the stereotype of “tits and ass.” But dang, if there’s on... thing I’d look at first, it would be their ass. Tonight was different, I was just sitting there, sipping on my bourbon on the rocks, watching people lead their own lives, which is always interesting if you pay attention to what some people do or say. It seemed boring, but I just felt something was going to be different tonight. An older woman, around. They were small scars, always easily hidden by clothing, existing as permanent reminders of the worst aspects of obsessive possessiveness. You couldn’t call that love, by Greg’s book. People could be treasured, but they weren’t treasure, they weren’t things. He’s come to accept them as part of her, though his heart still twinges painfully as he watches over her at night, imagining the story each old wound tells. Almost like writing on a wall, each seems to speak: a burnt dinner might be that. More

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