She said pick a word that rhymes with grace. He said race, space, ace, place. She said no, choose one. He said alright – space. He conducted the air to illustrate his choice. She simply sighed. He said okay, your turn. She bit her bottom lip, dowsing for blood, then led his finger to trace her eye, cheek, and lip. He said oh, I get it – face. His literal relief was her cataclysmic straw. She lied yes, that’s it.