While in Mexico, photographer Alex Yenni happened upon a poignant picture of Kim Kardashian and her fiancé, the talented and enigmatic Kanye West, tacked on to the wall of a zip-line office. He subsequently posted the image to Instagram, as any pop culture enthusiast might. Here is that image:

But what is going through Kanye’s mind as he sits, heavy, on that plastic lawn chair?

“Babe.” The voice cut through the humid air like a machete through butter. “Babe. Hey, babe.” Kanye turned.

“What.”

“Babe, come pose for a picture with Eduardo!” said Kim, flexing her eyelashes. Her hair shone like shiny fabric, though her eyes did not.

“Enrique,” the man corrected her, softly.

“You know what, I’m tired,” Kanye said. “I think I’m going to sit over on that chair.” What he did not say — what he could not say — was that the tiredness he felt was laced into his marrow, was permeating throughout the very meat of him. He felt tired in his blood, his bones. The air within his lungs felt tired. His thoughts felt heavy, boulders laying immobile across the plane of his mind.

Kim’s face remained still, placid. She carefully arranged her lips into something like a smile. She showed her teeth. “That’s fine.”

Kanye sat. He watched for a moment as Kim posed, how her body, at this point, so naturally and fluidly contorted itself into pleasing angles. She was a pro, he thought. She was professionally herself. The thought of it made him tireder still.

“Time to zip,” she said with a laugh. “Zip-a-dee-doodle. Haha. Like the song.” She was talking to the camera, and in return it loved her, absorbed her, consumed her. Or her image, at least, thought Kanye. Although what’s the difference? Really.

As Kanye watched Kim slide down the zip line, he felt he, too, was falling. “Kareful,” he said, too quietly for her to hear. For now she was too far.

Please note: The events of this fan fiction are fictional. No Kanye Wests were hurt, emotionally or otherwise, in the writing of this piece

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