by Dinamarie Isola   She left a box of half-eaten chocolates sitting on his dresser. Waxy and whitened along the edges, they looked inedible, if not fake. He didn’t bother to confirm what he knew to be true: the expiration date had long come and gone. Pitching them into the trash, the mounds of chocolate dinged against the metal rim, scattering over the floor. Even when she wasn’t around, somehow she made work for him. I don’t need you to take care of me. Lorelei liked to say that, but getting to her doctor appointments required crossing a six-lane highway.…