The last time I saw Francine, the two of us were secluded in the back of some hole-in-the-wall shop sitting across from one another in a dilapidated booth. While she sat slouched, submerged deep into the worn cushions, sobbing over the messiest of meatball subs, I kept my back straight—determined to maintain my composure with perfect posture and maximize the distance between us, protecting myself from her unsightly marinara splash zone. A disaster was unfolding before my eyes, and it was tough to ignore. Tough to endure. Francine’s lips were chapped, lubricated by a chili-colored coating of grease, not to…
