Rewind to Act 3, please take note the living room looks a little too lived in. Jackets strewn all over, leather coat pockets turned inside out, emptied. Receipts crumpled on the floor from some unattended romantic tryst. New cologne sample worn for that whore in those unfamiliar pictures torched with ashes dancing around a gold band whose chemical composition is more resilient than the marriage at hand was ever worth. A charred letter read: Sweetheart, let her down easy, don't say your love is dead on your anniversary. You don't have to say any more than I still love you, but not like before.