Then her split of wine spilled onto his gleaming rod of morning coffee, thusly, everyone was satisfied by a quickie in the bathroom. They presented themselves to the task at hand and all was well. They lived happily ever after for twelve minutes, thirty-seven seconds. A freak accident, the falling stars and hope dead at last made them realize the error of their ways. He looked at her, she at him; nothing more than casual sex and causal motion.
Nine months later he was in a factory bemoaning his stupidity for having failed to use proper protection, father of a bastard and recipient of genital herpes; she in a commune up in Canada with a hippy alternately named Jake and Moonstar pushing out another failed attempt at perfection.
The End
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