She's been holding his hand tightly, listening to the cracks spreading through the concrete supports, spider-webbing good, solid cuboids into abstract art. She wants to time this right.
The building screams.
"Before it happens, I want you to know....I've been sleeping with John."
He wipes a thread of blood from the shallow cut in his forehead out of his right eye, almost distractedly, already instinctively using the hand without the broken finger.
"I don't forgive you."
The sky falls in while she is trying to think of a reply.
Why are you here when you could be reading upsideclown?