“Courtesy,†she said. Courtesy for what? A courtesy is a curtsy in limbo, and my life is in an alabaster kitchen sink. I throw in the dishes, and the washer gets washed away. I cling to a sentiment she once spared--that love is an ephemeral design of shrewd linguists. I didn't believe her. Even a suspension of disbelief can't keep the puppeteer from tangling his cords. “I agree. It lacked courtesy. It's everything and nothing in provision. Sign here. Dot this line. Carry on with life. Okay. Courtesy. Is that all?†Sharp lines encircled her brow, and I could pick out the pores swamping themselves in beady anger. “No. You've got it all wrong. Things aren't right because courtesy is just a word to emasculate my emotions. You didn't delve deeper. You never do.†I bite my lip. The horse doesn't kick off this weary rider. He carries on. “What is emotion? Another contrived construct of your uncanny wit? Spare me this conversation. We're done.†And so we were.