He picks up my limited-edition watch, thumb hovering over the trash bin. "As for this"—the watch clatters into the bin, its gears grinding—"even gold is cold when mass-produced."
The watch I hunted across Tossa, New York, Tokyo—, begging the brand director for custom silver wolfsbane-resistant straps—now lies like a broken fang in the trash.
"Handmade is sacred!"
"This scarf has more spirit than any watch!"
I stand frozen, blood turning to ice.
How many times has this played out?
He skips pack meetings for Alice, yet forgets my mango allergy. He stays up nursing Alice through a cold, but sends his assistant with medicine when I burn at 102°F.
He flies to Atlantic for Alice's "snow craving," but arrives Five hours late to my birthday feast. Each time, he chooses her, tossing my heart
