Tears had already begun to collect along the bottoms of each of her eyeballs, as if saran-wrapped in sorrow. The Stock Boy would look at her, fleetingly, then guide his attention back to the RC Cola cans.
He didn’t wish to see the physical example of her anguish so close to where he stood. Her brown hair sticking to the side of her face, caught in the wet of her spilled heartbreak.
He was only 17. Hell, they both were.