This time it’s a pink bunny.

There’s a bar in New York City with a black counter and martinis instead of beer and everyone here smiles like plastic and drinks in pretty little sips, but there’s a claw machine in the quickie-mart across the street and it’s a bit of Scranton that catches you off guard. But Karen’s hair is straight and sleek like vinyl raincoats instead of curly and bouncy and warm and maybe (you’re not sure how exactly) it’ll make the difference.

You present the tiny stuffed animal that has crooked ears and a cotton tail with a cautious smile. You nudge it toward her and there’s something so unlike the routine of this place in the blush of Karen’s cheeks and the press of her bottom lip between her teeth. You’re faintly aware that this the breaking of a revolving cycle of disappointment as she takes your hand and the fuzzy miniature into her palm like she’ll protect it from further harm (you think this could apply to your heart too).

So this time it’s a pink bunny and you don’t end up alone.