Flaw Salad

He was not the kind of man to take emasculation in stride. Unlike smaller men with uneven shoulders and bulbous, lolling heads on thin, breakable necks, he commanded respect. He tolerated no lapse.

Time never does favor the weak, and he, all too aware of his brief, niggling existence, refused to spend precious hours feeling powerless. Instead, he acted. With all the certainty of a moon in its sky, he carried along his trajectory, stopping for no one, bending for nothing.

She, with outstretched hands, wept after him as he fled, his silhouette shrinking on the darkened horizon. At her feet lay a scrap of dignity, drenched in her tears, withering off its vine.