He looked at her, his eyes like crushed green beer bottle glass. His black hair was slicked back, and he gently pulled at his silver cufflinks and thought of his mother's embroidery and chandeliers. He was born into a life of grandeur, but lay awake at night tormented by his emptiness.
She looked at him, her eyes like gray dove feathers, fluffy and hopeful. Her hair was velvet, a beehive on her delicately sloped head, and she thought of her father, who she hadn't seen since she was eleven years old. He left her a heart-shaped glass box on her bedside table.
The truth of it weighted him, pressed against his cracked ribcage. It stung like splinters in soft skin, like rock salt and lemon juice. It ached like nostalgia. It felt like coming home again. He spoke in a whisper.
"All the time."