( Something meaningless for something beautiful. His mouth feels dry, tearing. Rain batters down, clear. Petrichor stabs and wounds his lungs.

He slips beneath the eaves, looking fleetingly askance. What is it men say at this time? What is there left to speak?

He looks askance, at once undone and exhausted by a conversation they both know better than to entertain. You will not like what you hear. Five never does. )

Years of one life, for years of another extended. Fair trade.