There was a burn on the floor where a cigarette had fallen from his drunken fingers and smoldered to death on the wood. There was a stain on the living room carpet where he’d spilled wine and left it there for days. There was tired resignation in his second wife’s eyes when she begged him to tell her what was wrong. There was nothing Lewis felt when she left and never came back. It was only a déjà vu, the same old song and dance, and he was sure it would happen again. Another burn, another stain.
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