Angela woke up one morning and immediately noticed the two eyeless sockets staring at her, the lipless grin smiling. As she brushed her teeth, he ran her comb through her hair. He read the paper for her as she spooned cornflakes into her mouth and washed it down with a hot sea of coffee. He was a true gentleman, holding open doors and pulling out chairs. As he helped her with her jacket, she wondered if he would be cold that day, but he couldn’t reply when she asked him if he wanted a sweater; his jaw wiggled open and hung down, but no words escaped his gaping, tongueless mouth. At lunch, spaghetti noodles tangled in his ribcage like wet ribbons. By the time they got home that evening, he had lost two knuckles, his big toe, a few cylinders from the puzzle of his spine. A few birds had nested in his chest, attracted to the remains of his lunch. His jaw hung  crookedly.