was the tragedy.

Not the excuse.

Behind us, the girl at the table cursed.

Her shoe had come apart again.

I looked at the tube of glue in her hand and walked over.

“You’re using too much.”

She looked up.

“What?”

I sat beside her.

“You have to clean it first.”

She reluctantly slid the shoe toward me.

I scraped away the old adhesive.

“Otherwise it won’t hold.”

For continue reading …