Paul just stared back at me, mouth drawn in a thin line, chestnut eyes staring out, grim and business-like. This was taken before he had grown his goatee. I thought it was a child-like effort to gain some maturity in his baby-face, but I never told him that.

Paul looked like how I felt. Uncaring, unfeeling, not happy, not unhappy. Not numb or unfeeling, but just a face in a box. Like so many other faces in boxes. People broke up everyday, all over the world. What was happening to me was happening to them, and the sheer volume of that was more profound than any petty feelings of remorse or regret.

So I put the license into the trash can, and left the house. It was raining.