It’s like we are in the 1920s, a vintage noir fabricated by deep shadows and some lights so bright, you can’t help but smile. Do they dance, side-stepping, twirling madly, madly, insanely happy? No, it’s a courtship. Eyes imitating thick, rich caramel fogged by the dense, salient smoke. Mist floods from each drag, the hot

The first time he told you it wasn’t a parking ticket, he chose his words carefully, stressing the syllables turning a story around, as you both were lying in his bed. That’s it. Instigator, you had to ask: So you didn’t hit her? Handing you a whiskey with a splash of coke, he told you

So you aren’t messing around? I would give him a long stare later that night, hands glued to my hips: a power-stance. Taylor Swift coached me never to forgive a cheater, But would he choose her? I had just wrapped the new CD, putting a bow over the cowboy hat of his favorite country singer,