I heard her crying and when I looked over it was like seeing one of those dolls Mother had, the unsmiling kind that look like little girls after a bad day in church. She kept mentioning Dave, Dave, Dave to her friend, but her friend didn’t do much, so I followed my doll home, and waited.

She left her apartment with a backpack.

The door was easy to unlock, though it squeaked. I scanned yearbooks, old, folded letters, and photos. Her name was Tress Stephens. She loved David, but he made her miserable. David Paul Alderidge: Best Dressed Senior – 2007.

"What the fuck, old man?" were the only words I heard. The rest were drowned into weak screams like scraping rope. The ring on his finger matched the one from the pictures, so I cut it off.

I waited again until she left. I put oil in the door and placed the ring atop her dresser with a new picture of David, and I noticed how much _he_ resembled Mother's dolls now: pale, lifeless, unsmiling.

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