The hand behind the camera signals: more.
I would smile, but I know better. Instead, I let out another sob, dreadful and echoing. I feel Mike twitch away from it. Amateur. If he was going to break up with me, I was going to get another show out of it.
The hands signal again. More.
I bury my face in his neck. Tears flow freely. I clench my fist around his dead father’s fountain pen—a parting gift because I meant so much to him. Gag.
More.
I raise the pen behind his back.
I’m going to be so famous.
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="First Kiss, Second Kiss by Jeff Currier"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Up, Up and Stay by Jacob Conflitti"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="The Butterfly Defect by Andreas Flögel"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Heavyweight by Gully Novaro"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>