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For most couples silence precedes the confession—but not for them. The weeks that lead up to the inevitable unraveling of their resistence are a mad rush of noise. As two halves of one increasingly unified whole, they spin, bejeweled children's tops along a scratchy wooden floor, lost amongst the debris of other playthings and shut off from the calm that would permit them to listen to their own hearts. And then there's beer and skin, and the leather and metal smell of angrily unbuckled belts, and Dom says it and Billy feels it. The quiet discreetly swallows their intentions. |