His love for her was like a theatrical manifesto. Every time she loved him back — even when it was short and sarcastically bittersweet. It felt like a machine gun that turned his life into a sculpture of holes. He bought her bottles of champagne and dressed her in expensive satin to cover her fake skin with. All the other men — in churches and restaurants alike — drooled like silly teenage boys over her extravagant beauty. He drove her in shiny exclusive cars and always rolled out the red carpet for her manicured feet and her pretty strawberry painted toenails. He was a puppet dressed in a tuxedo he'd inherited from his old big Papa. But he was also a happy lamb. Drunk on dreams and far away from home. He could borrow her breast and nipples whenever she'd allowed him too — and drink her virgin white milk — nibble on her rosy vagina like a lost little child.