She is on her side on the couch. In her arms lies the dog in full bliss, eyes half shut. She absentmindedly scratches his ears, but never too much, her natural compassion an unconscious impulse. A lifelong struggle with acne has left small scars in her skin. Rich hair, dark eyelashes, full lips, artistic hands, and a glass of tequila at her side. She holds the dog as if he might want to leave her.
“I don’t deserve friends like you,” she says. But she is wrong.
She is dwindling
See her pain, see her pain run
We watch, powerless