She’d always loved her Series 7 Louis Vuitton bag more than he, but today she finally realized the depth of and reason for that love. She’d chastised him several times throughout the day for rolling up his sleeves. She was frustrated that he continued to satiate his desire for sleevelessness with shirts that were deliberately made to do otherwise. Inexplicably, the ongoing tongue lashings only drew him closer to her. It repulsed her. She bit her tongue, rotated her shoulders away from his, and lifted and held her bag closely. She realized that the bag and him were far too similar for comfort: the intrinsic emptiness of the bag and his own emptiness allowed her to carefully curate what went inside inside of each. With both firmly in her possession, there was a now a redundancy. She lifted her thumb up to her lip pensively and thought: It occurred to her that unlike him, the bag could be emptied out whenever she pleased. To return him to a state of emptiness, however, would require far more work and dedication. She turned her head to avert his gaze but could still feel it penetrating deeply into the crook of her neck. She loved the bag for its infinite emptiness and loathed him for his inability to mimic its ease of use. As she mulled over how to end things with him, she also briefly considered sucking her thumb. Both could give her pleasure, but only one could set her free.