Tiffany thought about Andrew.  He was nice enough.   He treated her well, a starving artist, though, who seemed to like the fact that she wasn't.   Yet he told her he didn't want her getting an MBA, preferred her as a photographer, his level anyway.   They'd gotten in a fight over in Ireland, a trip she'd paid for.  She'd tried to run away drunk, so he'd taken her clothes.   As if that mattered, he'd forgotten how she'd chased him out to the parking lot of their complex after her bible, wearing not much more than now, earlier that summer.  But then back in Ireland, when Tiffany woke up the next morning, she'd found all the hotel furniture tied with a backpacking rope to the door.  Andrew didn't want her to get away.          

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