It’s dull but persistent, a thick band of pain that begins somewhere at the base of his neck and extends all the way up and around where it throbs in his forehead. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” Mitch mutters. There is a man across from him, hand poised over a sheet of lined stationery. Words fill the paper with the dip and sweep of careful penmanship, the sort of writing that is a dying art. They don’t teach kids cursive anymore. At least, Mitch doesn’t think they do. But the man with the defined jaw and delicate hands writes beautifully, and it seems as if he’s waiting for Mitch to say something before he goes on. The tip of the fountain pen is a hair’s breadth from the paper. It irritates Mitch, the way the man looks up expectantly. “You were just telling me about the first time you met Bev. About the diner…?” The man reaches for a piece of stationery that is lying facedown beside him. He scans the page before he finds the right spot. “Here: ‘She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
