The sun rises bright crimson and orange over the Arizona mountains. It stops just on the horizon to frame a tall and beautiful saguaro, then over the top to flood the small valley that seats the majestic city of Phoenix with light. It's rays creep slowly over the cement balcony where she lays, sleeping. Both patio chairs reclined almost flat as a bed; she's been out there all night. The gentle wave of light washes over her feet, up her legs, over her body, shielded only by the hotel's complimentary robe left in each room, and lightly touches her face. Her eyelids flutter and slowly open on the morning. A small soft smile crosses her face and she turns her head to see the man in the other chair. Her delicate smile fades when she discovers the chair empty. She turns her attention to the small glass top table in between the two chairs. There sits a half full bottle of Jose Quervo Tequila and two glasses, the one closest to her in empty, but the one he was drinking from is still full. Movement catches her eye and leads it to the top of the bottle, where a monarch butterfly has landed and is lightly flapping its wings in the sun. She tightens her fist and feels a hard object there. Clutched in her hand are a pair of dog tags, his. She runs her fingers over the letters, as if silently calling to him. Finally she whispers his name in a heavy sob, "Casanova".