70.

One night, the maiden finds her sister drunk, throwing stones at an upper window of the monastery. “Havana,” she says gently, “please stop.”

Postergirl of bloodshot heartbreak, Havana stumbles forward. “It’s too late. He’s already coming down. To forgive me.”

The maiden pulls back her sister’s hair, sopping with whiskey and bile. “I thought it was the end?”

“Nah.” Havana smiles, weak and wasted. “That’s the only lie he tells.”

73.

Once there was a priest, a prince, and a sailor. It was their poetic misfortune to be in love with the same woman. The maiden gave to the man of God her friendship, to the man of State her kiss, and to the sailor… her heart. It was recompense for his, which she’d broken – quite by accident – before he left. (He left.) Hers is something he values, though he finds it very heavy.