Came a few months in a drunken haze of splintered moons, the calls all short ones, and tired voices whining. One night she exploded: "Mann, this is killing me. Are we out of our bloody minds?" His stomach turned at his murmured, "Cassette, just keep the tape rolling. We are worth it."
From there, everything went downhill. The venomous email: "Maybe we're chasing shadows. Maybe love's not enough." He couldn't reply but stared angrily at those wordings. A week later came a battered package by a courier, delivered to her door: a cassette tape hastily labeled "For My Cassette." She pressed play. His raw, sweet voice drowned her in a wave of memories: their fights, their fire, their stubborn hope.
She'd called, sobbing so hard he could barely hear her. "You bloody idiot, Mann." He chuckled; half-choked. "Yes. Your idiot, Cassette."
Love is filth on the floor, all mix up with sweat and dirt.
Grabbing each other out of love with violence.
A song that breaks and mends.
A heart bent but never quite broken.
Silence again. For weeks, deathly quiet. Mann's hope was waning, giving way to fear. Did she really walk out for good?