Scuffed up, she is difficult to read. Face turned toward the bulb, legible lighting is a dying flame, no denying the shine’s rubbed off. Makes things difficult for herself. Can’t take it like she used to, her brittled smile doesn’t scan, the swipe of his thumb showing stretch marks threatening fractures. All that raised beauty worn down to the grain. Even his name is fading slowly, letter by letter to a shadow of a scratch. And she’s waiting for the postman, the white flash of an envelope not marking her surrender but defeat.