Mark

At 46, you're sitting in a cold, one-room apartment. Rusty pipes drip onto a pile of unpaid bills. On a sagging sofa. You were once a handsome guy, and now you're just tired, empty-eyed. There's no one around. Twenty years ago, you left Mark when his construction company collapsed. "I'll give it all back," he said, 28, with shining eyes and hopes, pleading with you not to leave: "I'll give it all back!" But you didn't believe it. You packed your suitcase and left, while Mark cried over your departure and grief.

And yesterday I saw his face on a billboard. "Mark Korff - Forbes, net worth 12 billion." He's become what he promised. Married? You probably thought so, but you were wrong. He never had a family before; apparently, he either couldn't trust anyone right now, or he's faithful only to you. And you have loans and a bad back. And the most acute pain isn't hunger, but memory. You remember the smell of his neck in the morning, how he laughed, giving you flowers from the flowerbed, and sometimes, with a black eye, brought you sweets.

You cry into your pillow, and then go get some cheap wine. You cross the road without looking both ways. A truck hits you, and then darkness.

And then the light, harsh and searing, stings your eyes. You open them and see your young hand. That same flower lies on the nightstand nearby. Outside, it's 2004. And from the kitchen, Mark's voice, confused and trembling, comes: "Darling, we have nothing. Bankruptcy."