They are flipping everywhere. Every drawer in the house has at least five pens. In the place where we’re supposed to keep pens, I once counted 73. Some don’t even work.

            I pick up the blue one. It’s the color of the pen, but who knows about the ink. It long dried. This obvious Bic pen, on the side written in gold reads, “Horseshoe Casino and Hotel.” You pocketed that pen about two minutes upon entering the room on our first night away together. You signed my birthday card with it. You wrote “I love you” notes with it and left those notes on my bathroom mirror countless mornings.

            I place the inkless pen back among its company of hopeful counterparts that can no longer write but contain volumes.