Eyes of lies cannot be hidden. I look at this image and envision the husband seated alone on the left bench. He glances into the garbage can and see’s a bar check with a femininely written phone number on it. The number is initialed with a heart. He envisions his moments of lust. His moments of notes.
His wife is seated on the bench to the right. She stairs off into the sky and remembers a time men found her attractive. She looks into the clouds and sees a film of a day when her skin didn’t sag. A day when the man who sat on the bench beside her wanted her more than anything in the world. She tossed pennies into the well while wishing to experience that day again.