Accustomed as he was to insignificance, her shelter made him wince. He would delete the friction that derived from all the dither of her doting. He would rinse his hands repeatedly and turn inward, anticipating still repeated onslaughts. He would lather his forearms and let the cleanliness contain him. He would shield the silence he preferred from whatever she had said. He was a shadow of her overtime, sensing the unwanted love. He yearned to hold his youth in check while she inflicted her experience. He brought home what he had and locked the door as though it were a new door. He repainted its exterior the color of resistance. He failed to think the rain might be a form of tearing up. He was invisible as precipitation sans the dust.