It took three beer.

Then Coyote, casually, as he headed out to smoke, stopped, bent down and between the  couple; grey-haired, wrinkled, sitting right up against the table, one hand, anxious wanting to tremble, on their drink, the others clasped tightly together.

“So what’s your secret?” he asked.

“No secret,” the woman said, figuring the situation. “We love each other. ” They raised their glasses. “If you’re looking to learn something, you’re looking the wrong way.”

Why the fuck? What was he hoping for? Romanticism? What the fuck? Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Forehead creased, severely, Coyote, ran, outside, lit his cigarette.




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