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Summary
She's got her back pressed against worn sticky plastic in a swan boat of dubious structural integrity. The swan in front of them is cracked nearly in half, one sad wing drooping awkwardly to the left. It must be out of order. The tunnel is humid and dark, and she can smell the subtle spice of Karadec's cologne over the reek of dielectric grease, warm and piquant, and it's driving her nuts. Bruce Springsteen is still singing in the background, piped through the shitty speakers, on and on in that slightly flat tone he affected on the whole Tunnel of Love album, always a little off from where she expects the notes to fall. It oughta be easy, oughta be simple enough, he croons. Man meets woman and they fall in love.