I watch him instead of her,

count the ribs showing

through his skin

when he changes his own shirt.

"Now what?"

Krista's stuffing her wet bra

into the front pocket of her jeans.

Mickey's shirt is huge on her

but not huge enough

to hide her curves.

I spy the guitar case in the corner.

"Ask him to play."

We have to get something

into his hands

besides that gun.

Music was always my savior.

Maybe it'll be his too.

He tries a few tunes

by candlelight

on the living room sofa,

but his fingers seem numb,

his voice, starved.

Krista looks dubious.

"Mickey's much better than this," I tell her.

"He got accepted to a conservatory,

but don't bring that up.

He's not going."

I answer her quizzical look with,

"Because of the money."

Mickey stops

at the start

of the third verse.

"I forget the rest.