One slip, a falling trick, then she’s in his arms, a CRASH.
He traces her Picasso cheekbones. The back of his hand comes away, a smear of soft yellow glitter.
She frets about the smear. Do I still look alright? She fears.
It looks fine. But then the eyes. Can you see them? She asks. They follow her. There are so many.
He doesn’t know what to say. Can he make it up to her, in any way? He’s not sure what he did wrong.