And there he was, sitting on your couch, showing as a reflection of the past the trash you turned into when John told you he couldn't do it anymore.

<em> Why was she still looking at the sodden sidewalk with people running around with their colorful umbrellas? </em>

<em>" John ran his fingers over one more star, prying it easily from the top, dropping it into the bag attached to his ladder." </em>

<em> And the young man's fingers ran slowly and skillfully over the thin strings of a chipped wooden guitar, with some writings, some stickers, things that denounced its extensive time of use. </em>

<em> The headphones were in his ear, but the iPod hadn't played for a while, and on the bright-light screen, the only light in the dark of the bus, an old song from what he liked to call "his band". </em>

<em> Long, thin fingers pulled the coat closer to her, eyes downcast and fixed on hundreds of small pieces of thick paper scattered across the coffee table and fluffy rug in the living room. </em>