No one really cares, or even notices, as far as they can tell, but they wouldn't care either way. Some things are just meant, aren't they? And then there's nothing to be done about it. And it all just falls together, and they make a life with toilet paper doll covers and tobacco and candy and photos of other people's lives. They look sometimes - far off places or places 'round the corner - but none of it matters, because everything they have is here or nearby and really, all they really need is right here in each other.

When it's late and it's dark, they whisper things that make them laugh and sometimes cry, but mostly it's endearments and 'I love you' and 'forever', but sometimes it's their hated Christian names - Cadwgawn and Meuric - said in whispered giggles of promises, mockeries of promises and vows that aren't a mockery at all when it comes to the rest of their lives.

So they move on, day by day, and there's more candy and there's more cigarettes and there are more pictures, but it doesn't matter that it all belongs to someone else because they belong to each other, because they're behind the counter together, and they can easily wrap each other up in their arms, and whether there's laughter or tears, there's Hob for Nob and Nob for Hob.

Exactly as it always should be.