I allow myself to picture Dory’s plump rose-tinted lips pressing a row of tender kisses along the ragged length of Vic’s snaky scar, her fingertip... following close behind, sealing in her devotion. I try to imagine the rise of overpowering emotion welling in her breast, as she lets herself acknowledge how close she came to never living this moment… how real the possibility was that she would never touch his flesh again. I ache around the careful hug she so softly employs to swaddle his recently. I didn’t appreciate the bikers sitting next to me while I was drowning my sorrow, and I took umbrage when they told the pretty night barkeep that the only real men were bikers and Marines. I spun my bar stool ninety degrees to face them and broke Ranger rule number fifteen, ‘never let your mouth write a check your ass can’t cover’. I first told them exactly what I thought of Marines, then as a bonus, I made a few pithy remarks about their Mamas and Harley-Davidson motorcycles.The biker sitting. More

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