Tom took a tack from the table, touching it to his thumb before thrusting it into the tattered tableau of him and Tanya.
“Time,” he tittered, his tone trenchant as he traced the tempestuous twists and turns of their torsos with the tip of the tack.
Tanya, a threadbare transcription of his Tanya, turned away, her tired eyes teaming with tears. “Time.”
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