Trefoil tattoos mark the patch of skin where Washington holds the fragments of his battered lip balm container to his heart and sobs like a little girl. He doesn’t remember where or when the cheap possession came to be his, but his cherishing moments are seldom overlooked.

He remembers how windbeaten his lips had been that dry winter day, and how he bundled himself against the elements to at least attempt relieving some of the pain of existing in those conditions.

Suddenly he came upon a convenience store, open 24 hours a day and boasting wonderful room temperature. He dug into his pockets for currency, procuring three dollars and change. He was overjoyed to learn that lip balm only cost a buck seventy-nine. He accepted the two dimes and a penny with his left hand while applying lip-saving moisture with his right.

And now that the balm tin is depleted of product, Washington keeps it in his left breast pocket to remind him of the wonders of the civilized world while providing ceremonial protection against bullets aimed at his heart.

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